tfheodosia  Garrison 


THE  JOY  0'  LIFE 


and  other  Poems 


BY 

(Tfieodosia  Garrison 


NEW  YORK. 
Mitchell  Kennerley 

PUBLISHER. 

tqoq 


Copyright,  1909,   by  Mitchell  Kennerley 


TO  J.  G. 


3GIM4 


For  the  privilege  of  reprinting  the  poems  appearing  in  this 
volume,  the  author  thanks  the  editors  of  Harper's,  Scribner's, 
The  Century,  The  Smart  Set,  Ainslee's,  Lippincott 's •,  The 
Delineator,  The  Metropolitan,  Life,  The  Cosmopolitan,  Mun- 
sey's,  McClure's,  The  Bookman,  and  others. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE   JOY   O'   LIFE 9 

THE  PARTING   OF   THE   WAYS " 

THE   GUESTS  OF  SLEEP I2 

THE  MEMORIES  OF  PIERROT 13 

A    BALLAD    OF   HALLOWE'EN 16 

/    THOUGHT   OF  LOVE 1* 

THE    THOUGHT        *9 

THE    CYNIC 20 

THE    MOTHER 2I 

THE    FAILURES 22 

THE    TRUTH 23 

THE    DOOR 24 

THE  SEVEN  SONGS  OF  PENITENCE 25 

DEFEATED        27 

WHILE   MARY   DREAMED 28 

THE   GUEST  DENIED 3° 

THE  LIVING  SEA 3* 

THE  LAST  NIGHT 32 

KNOWLEDGE 33 

THE   TEARS  OF  HARLEQUIN 34 

THE  DREAM   OF   THE   INNKEEPER'S    WIFE    ....  35 

TIME 37 

BALLAD   OF   TWO   SAINTS 3* 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE    GREEN  INN 40 

THE    SEA-BORN 42 

THE    STARS 43 

THE   UNATTAINED 44 

JOHN   O'  DREAMS 45 

THE  FOOLISH  FOLK 46 

STAINS 48 

A    PETITION 49 

THE  FIRST  DAY 5o 

MARIONETTES 5I 

FLEURETTE 53 

DISTANCE 55 

AFTERMATH 56 

A  SONG  OF  MARY 57 

THE   APOSTLE 58 

A   THANKSGIVING 59 

THE    TORCH 61 

DEFIANCE 62 

THE  WIFE 63 

THE   MARCH 64 

TO-MORROW 65 

BALLAD  OF  EVE'S  RETURN 66 

EXPERIENCE 69 

INERTIA 70 

TWO    BROTHERS 7l 

THE   INHERITANCE 73 

PIERRETTE 75 

PRESCIENCE 76 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  WOUNDED 77 

THE  UNPOSSESSED 78 

THE    CLOSED   DOOR 79 

FAILURE 80 

THE  UN  FORGIVEN 81 

THE  POET 82 

A    PRISONER 83 

BARRIERS 84 

THE   DEATH   OF  HELOISE 85 

THE  LOST   WINGS 86 

THE   CHILDREN 87 

THE  LITTLE  CHRISTIAN 89 

THE    VICTORS 9=> 

A  MORNING 91 

APRIL 92 

THE    PIPER 93 

THE  LIGHTS  OF  CROYDON 95 

AT  THE  DATS  END 96 

THE    FORTUNATE 97 

FIRST  LOVE 98 

THE   LOSER 99 

THE    WINDOW 101 

TRAVESTY        102 

THE   LITTLE   SISTER 103 

THE   GOD   OF   CLAY 105 

WHEN  WOFF1NGTON  SOLD   WATER-CRESS   .     .     .     .  106 

'TONIO 107 

THE   QUEEN'S  SONG 108 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  LOST  HERITAGE 112 

THE  DATS  END n4 

THE    WANDERLUST 116 

/  HEARD  A  VOICE n8 

ON   TYBURN  HILL 119 

MAY  FLOWERS 120 

CONTRAST        122 

A  DREAM  OF  THESSALY 123 

THE   GOD-GHOST 124 

A  SONG  OF  KAMAL 127 

THE  IRISH  HEART 

THE    DAUGHTER I3I 

THE   CRUEL  NAME 133 

OMENS 134 

WHEN  THE  LAD  COMES  BACK 135 

A   SPRING  SONG 137 

DANNY        138 

THE  CALL  OF  HOME 139 

THE   KING'S   CHAMBER 143 


THE  JOY  O'  LIFE     ,,,,,,,  ,  : 

OH,  the  Joy  o'  Life  goes  singing  through  the  highway, 

Oh,  the  Joy  o'  Life  goes  swinging  through  the  green, 
And  the  form  of  her  is  slight  as  a  crescent  moon  at  night 

And  her  face  is  some  strange  flower  none  hath  seen. 
She  beckoned  me  and  what  could  I  but  follow? 

(Oh,  I  have  seen  the  glamour  of  her  eyes!) 
Through   the  winding  o'   the  ways,   through   the   hundred 
nights  and  days 

Must  I  follow  where  she  lures  me  woman-wise. 

My  plough  —  I  left  it  idle  in  the  furrow  — 

My  harvest  lies  for  other  eyes  to  scan, 
For  it's  fare  ye  well  to  loam,  to  hearthstone  and  to  home 

When  the  Joy  o'  Life  is  calling  to  a  man. 

Oh,  the  Joy  o'  Life  she  calls  me  from  the  valley, 

Oh,  the  Joy  o'  Life,  she  hails  me  from  the  height, 
And  her  voice  is  like  the  thrill  of  the  thrush  when  noon  is 
still 

And  her  laughter  is  the  lilting  of  delight. 
I  follow  through  the  sunshine  and  the  moonshine  — 

(Oh,  I  have  seen  the  waving  of  her  hand!) 
In  the  paths  that  know  the  fleet,  flying  touches  of  her  feet 

At  the  music  of  her  mocking  of  command. 

My  friend  —  I  left  him  fasting  at  my  threshold  — 

My  sweetheart  is  another  man's  to  wife, 
For  it's  fare  ye  well  my  own,  and  it's  laugh  and  turn  alone 

When  a  man  has  heard  the  voice  of  Joy  o'  Life. 

9 


I  HE-JOY  O'  LIFE 

Oh,  the  Joy  o'  Life  she  ever  flies  before  me, 

Oh,  the  Joy  o'  Life,  she  may  not  turn  or  wait, 
But  the  day  must  dawn  at  last  when  the  distances  are  passed 

And  the  heart  of  me  is  leaping  to  its  mate. 
I  have  wooed  her  with  the  strength  of  my  pursuing  — 

(Oh,  I  shall  know  the  sweetness  of  her  mouth!) 
And  I  may  not  faint  or  pine  till  her  hand  hath  closed  in  mine 

Like  the  touch  of  silvern  water  in  the  drouth. 

My  dead  —  I  left  them  sleeping  in  the  churchyard  — 

My  gods  I  thrust  aside  to  bless  or  ban, 
For  it's  fare  ye  well  and  hie,  and  it's  follow  till  ye  die 

When  the  Joy  o'  Life  is  calling  to  a  man. 


10 


THE  PARTING  OF  THE  WAYS 

OH,  the  road  lies  green  behind  us  like  a  narrow  winding 
river  — 

May  bloom  and  rose  bloom  and  whisper  o'  the  wind  — 
Sunbeams  spilled  along  the  path  like  arrows  from  a  quiver  — 

Nay,  ive  must  press  on,  sweetheart,  and  never  look  behind. 
Time  is  left  and  little  time  for  tender  words  and  kisses, 

A  little  round  o'  purple  nights,  a  round  of  golden  days, 
Never  was  a  gypsying  so  sweet  a  one  as  this  is  — 

We  are  nearing  to  the  parting  of  the  ways. 

When  at  first  we  took  the  road  the  crescent  moon  was  slen- 

der, 

Like  a  folded  lily-bud  asway  on  curving  stem; 
Night  and  night  she  spread  her  leaves  until  she  flashed  in 

splendour, 
Night  and  night  her  petals  drooped  the  while  we  noted 

them. 

Now,  before  the  moon  is  dead,  let  us  laugh  together  — 
Still  there  lies  a  little  way  and  time  to  kiss  and  praise ; 
(Oh,  your  hand  lies  light  in  mine   as  little  curled  white 

feather)  — 
We  are  nearing  to  the  parting  of  the  ways. 

Oh,  the  glory  of  the  days  that  we  two  have  roved  in, — 

Green  wood  and  deep  wood  and  low  wind  of  the  South  — 
Oh,  the  tenderness  of  nights  that  we  two  have  loved  in  — 

Soft  arms  and  warm  arms,  and  kisses  of  your  mouth; 
Would  that  there  were  turning  back  to  the  path's  beginning, 

Back  of  us  the  tender  light,  all  before  the  haze ; 
Let  our  feet  be  slow,  sweetheart,  the  goal  is  weary  winning  — 

We  are  nearing  to  the  parting  of  the  ways. 

ii 


THE  GUESTS  OF  SLEEP 

SLEEP  at  the  Inn  o'  Dreams  — 

A  kindly  host  he  waits, 
And  all  night  long  a  goodly  throng 

Comes  softly  through  his  gates. 

A  varied  company  — 

Scholar  and  clown  and  king, 
Or  prince  or  priest,  or  great  or  least, 

He  gives  them  welcoming. 

For  each  he  fills  the  cup 
Where  poppy  petals  swim, 

Wherefrom  each  guest  at  his  behest 
Drinks  deeply,  toasting  him. 

And  old  men  drink  of  youth, 
And  sad  men  of  delight, 

And  weary  men  drink  deep  again 
The  pulsing  wine  of  might. 

And  poets  drink  of  song, 

But  best  and  Oh,  most  sweet, 

Above  that  brim  where  poppies  swim 
The  lips  of  lovers  meet. 

Sleep  at  the  Inn  o'  Dreams  — 
A  kindly  host  he  waits, 

And  all  night  long  a  goodly  throng 

Comes  softly  through  his  gates. 

12 


THE  MEMORIES  OF  PIERROT 

THERE  was  a  morning  when  the  April  sun 
Tapped  with  soft  fingers  at  the  attic  pane 
And  fell  on  Pierrette's  face  like  golden  rain 

That  roused  her  ere  her  happy  sleep  was  done. 

And  even  so  she  woke  him  in  this  wise  — 

Pierrot,  who  through  his  slumbers  felt  the  stir 

Of  gold  hair  like  shed  sunbeams  on  his  eyes, 
And  so  waked  smiling  from  a  dream  of  her. 

He  heard  her  laugh  before  he  saw  her  face  — 
She  danced  beside  him  at  the  carnival, 
Mirth-mad  and  masked,  with  jests  for  one  and  all, 

A  wind-swayed  rose,  a  slender  flame  of  grace; 

And  through  his  pleadings,  plaintive,  whimsical, 
Still  she  denied  his  eyes  their  right  to  see, 
And  mocked  his  patience,  and  then,  suddenly, 

Lifted  her  hand  and  let  the  velvet  fall. 

Only  a  little  moment  —  then  again 

Merry  and  masked  she  bade  new  revels  start;" 
But  Pierrot  stood  in  silence,  and  his  heart 

Thrilled  with  such  ecstasy  it  stung  like  pain. 

There  was  a  day  they  parted  angrily  — 

The  day  she  tossed  the  red  rose  from  her  hair 
Into  another's  hand,  and  did  not  care, 
But    leaned    and    laughed    where    Pierrot    frowned    to 

see. 

And  all  alone  he  climbed  the  creaking  stair 
And  sat  in  silence  and  with  hidden  face 
13 


THE  MEMORIES  OF  PIERROT 

While  the  night  fell,  and  all  the  lonely  place 
Yearned  for  her  loveliness  who  was  not  there. 
So  light  her  hand  upon  the  swinging  door 

He  might  not  guess  whose  coming  threw  it  wide; 

So  light  her  footstep  as  she  sought  his  side 
It  fell  as  soft  as  moonlight  on  the  floor. 
Then  brokenly,  like  music  in  his  ears, 

One  sobbed  his  name,  and  as  their  kisses  met 

He  thrilled  and  trembled,  for  her  eyes  were  wet  - 
That  was  the  night  when  first  he  knew  her  tears. 

They  went  a-Maying  when  the  Spring  was  new, 

Leaving  the  noisy  city  streets  behind, 

But  all  the  violets  they  bent  to  find 
Hid  shamed  because  her  blue  eyes  were  more  blue. 
And  all  the  birds  were  mute  the  forest  through, 

And  hushed  their  music  with  a  jealous  wit, 

Knowing  her  laughter  was  more  exquisite 
And  sweeter  than  the  sweetest  song  they  knew. 

Alone  he  came  to  her  and  closed  the  door. 

The  pitiful,  new  neatness  of  the  room 
Was  like  a  stranger's  frown,  and  through  the  gloom, 

Each  one  an  anguish  and  a  memory, 
Ghost-like  the  garments  that  she  one  day  wore 

Stirred  as  he  passed  them  with  their  old  perfume. 
Her  caged  bird  called  him  from  the  window-sill; 

Still  bloomed  the  little  pot  of  mignonette 

Upon  the  casement,  all  unwithered  yet, 

That  seemed  to  give  him  welcome,  and  his  heart 
14 


THE  MEMORIES  OF  PIERROT 

Broke  newly  as  he  listened  —  for  how  still, 

How  still  she  lay  who  last  night  was  Pierrette ! 

All  night  he  knelt  beside  her  till  at  last 

The  far  dawn  lifted  like  white  smoke  upcurled ; 
Then  from  her  hand  as  from  a  blossom  furled, 
He  drew  the  crucifix,  and  in  its  place 

Put  roses  upon  roses,  and  so  passed 

Dry-eyed  and  silent  to  the  empty  world. 


A  BALLAD  OF  HALLOWE'EN 

ALL  night  the  wild  wind  on  the  heath 
Whistled  its  song  of  vague  alarms; 

All  night  in  some  mad  dance  of  death 
The  poplars  tossed  their  naked  arms. 

Mignon  Isa  hath  left  her  bed 

And  bared  her  shoulders  to  the  blast; 
The  long  procession  of  the  dead 

Stared  at  her  as  it  passed. 

"  Oh,  there,  methinks,  my  mother  smiled, 
And  there  my  father  walks  forlorn, 

And  there  the  little  nameless  child 
That  was  the  parish  scorn. 

"  And  there  my  olden  comrades  move, 
And  there  my  sister  smiles  apart, 

But  nowhere  is  the  fair,  false  love 
That  bent  and  broke  my  heart. 

"  Oh,  false  in  life,  oh,  false  in  death, 

Wherever  thy  mad  spirit  be, 
Could  it  not  come  this  night,"  she  saith, 

"  To  keep  a  tryst  with  me!  " 

Mignon  Isa  hath  turned  alone, 

Bitter  the  pain  and  long  the  years; 

The  moonlight  on  the  cold  gravestone 
Was  warmer  than  her  tears. 
16 


A  BALLAD  OF  HALLOWE'EN 

All  night  the  wild  wind  on  the  heath 
Whistled  its  song  of  vague  alarms; 

All  night  in  some  mad  dance  of  death 
The  poplars  tossed  their  naked  arms. 


/  THOUGHT  OF  LOVE 

I  THOUGHT  of  Love  (Ah,  very  long  ago!) 
As  a  great  force,  an  all-compelling  might, 
A  white  flame  that  made  mid-day  of  the  night, 

A  swift  bewildering,  a  splendid  blow. 

I  thought  of  him  as  of  some  wondrous  foe 
Armed  by  the  gods  with  menace  and  delight 
To  sway,  to  startle  and  to  conquer  quite, 

The  too  rebellious  heart  that  dared  him  so. 

Ah,  that  was  long  ago.     To-day,  grown  old, 
I  think  of  Love  as  sick  men  think  of  sleep, 
Yea,  as  a  man  distracted  thinks  of  rest 

And  tenderness  of  woman  that  may  fold 

Close  arms  about  his  wounds  and  bid  him  weep 
Weakly  and  unashamed  upon  her  breast. 


18 


THE  THOUGHT 

WHY,  once  the  very  thought  of  him  was  vital 

As  is  some  crimson  rose 
Flaming,  defiant  in  a  quiet  garden 

Among  pale  lily  blows. 

And  yet  to-day  the  thought  of  him  is  only 

A  rose  closed  in  a  book  — 
A  lifeless  thing  long  shut  between  dull  pages 

Where  she  forgets  to  look. 

And  yet  I  think  an  old  love-thought  forgotten 

Somewhere  not  wholly  dies. 
It  may  be  of  such  roses  angels  weave  us 

The  wreaths  of  Paradise. 


THE  CYNIC 

I  SAY  it  to  comfort  me  over  and  over, 

Having  a  querulous  heart  to  beguile, 
Never  had  woman  a  tenderer  lover  — 

For  a  little  while. 

Oh,  there  never  were  eyes  more  eager  to  read  her 
In  her  saddest  mood  or  her  moments  gay, 

Oh,  there  never  were  hands  more  strong  to  lead  her 
For  a  little  way. 

There  never  were  loftier  promises  given 

Of  love  that  should  guard  her  the  ages  through, 

As  great,  enduring  and  steadfast  as  Heaven  — 
For  a  week  or  two. 

Well,  end  as  it  does,  I  have  had  it,  known  it, 
For  this  shall  I  turn  me  to  weep  or  pray? 

Nay,  rather  I  laugh  that  I  thought  to  own  it 
For  more  than  a  day. 


20 


THE  MOTHER 

AM  I  not  kin  to  those  high  souls,  elate, 

Who  dreamed  brave  dreams  too  wonderful  and  great 

For  any  telling?     Yea,  I  too  have  been 
As  near  to  God  as  poet,  seer  and  saint, 

And  through  glad  tears  his  mysteries  have  seen, 
Seeing  I  sat  as  humble  women  may 
And  sewed  on  little  garments  day  by  day. 

They  who  have  known  joy,  flawless  and  complete  — 
Am  I  not  one  of  them,  whose  joy  was  sweet 

Beyond  the  bliss  of  lovers?     Nay,  above 

The  calm  of  martyrs  crowned,  my  joy  hath  been  - 

The  perfect  crowning  of  perfected  love, 
Seeing  that  one  glad  day  against  my  breast 
The  wonder  of  a  little  head  was  pressed. 

Am  I  not  sister  unto  them  whose  tears 
All  men  have  venerated  through  the  years? 

There  is  no  sorrow  in  a  world  too  wide 
I  may  not  know  and  feel  and  understand. 

Mine,  mine  the  anguish  of  the  Crucified, 
The  heart  of  Mary  —  seeing  on  a  day 
I  kissed  a  child's  dead  face  and  turned  away. 


21 


THE  FAILURES 

WE  who  have  failed,  remember  this  of  us  — 
Oh  you,  whose  hands  have  grasped  the  luminous 
And  lovely  thing  that  is  your  soul's  desired, 
Though  once  we  fell  and  blundered  on  the  way, 
Though  now  we  turn  shamed  faces  from  the  day, 
Remember  this  —  that  once  we  too  aspired. 

We  who  have  failed  through  weakness  or  surmise, 
Be  gentle  with  us  if  we  turn  our  eyes 
Sometimes  from  sight  of  those  victorious, 

Crowned  and  exultant  on  the  farthest  height, 
Seeing  that  once  we  watched  our  arms  by  night, 
Seeing  that  once  we  dreamed  to  triumph  thus. 

We  who  have  failed  in  life  and  love  and  task, 
Surely  not  overmuch  this  gift  we  ask. 
Be  not  too  scornful,  you,  whose  glorious, 

Undaunted  souls  pressed  on  through  flood  and  fire, 
Of  those  too  weak  to  grasp  a  great  desire. 
We  who  have  failed,  remember  this  of  us. 


22 


THE  TRUTH 

i\ 
THAT  glorious  flame  that  was  my  youth 

Is  burnt  to  ashes,  flung 
And  scattered,  and  I  know  the  truth  — 

I  who  one  day  was  young. 

Wisdom  is  mine  my  peers  among, 

No  craft  my  skill  defies ; 
I  hear  beyond  the  flattering  tongue 

And  see  beyond  surmise. 

And  this  my  wisdom  —  I  grown  wise 

Would  toss  it  all  in  fee 
For  one  of  Youth's  delicious  lies 

That  one  day  cheated  me. 

For  this  is  wisdom's  worth  —  to  see 

That  ignorance  was  fair, 
And  more  than  Truth  is  Comedy 

With  rose  leaves  on  her  hair. 


THE  DOOR 

BETWEEN  us  stands  the  closed  door  of  your  grief. 

Oh,  my  Beloved,  is  this  thing  well  done? 

What  part  have  I  with  Summer  and  with  Sun 
Since  you  deny  them  to  your  heart's  relief? 

Was  I  Life's  jester  then  and  nothing  more? 

Open  the  door! 

Think  you  I  walk  with  gladness  while  afar 
You  sit  alone  with  sorrow?     Nay,  not  so. 
There  is  no  tear  you  shed  I  do  not  know, 

No  wound  you  feel  but  I  too  bear  its  scar  — 
May  I  not  stand  beside  you  then,  the  less 
Wounded  by  knowledge  of  your  loneliness? 

Know  this,  that  I,  a  watcher  in  the  night, 
Would  find  no  word  to  censure  or  complain 
Could  I  but  see  upon  your  window  pane 

The  glow  of  hearth-flame  and  of  candle-light. 
So  might  I  turn,  who  now  may  only  wait 
Knowing  you  sit  in  darkness  —  desolate. 

Oh,  my  Beloved,  is  this  thing  well  done? 

Is  Love  the  veriest  servant  of  your  years 

Unworthy  to  be  comrade  of  your  tears? 
Was  mirth  alone  the  bond  that  made  us  one? 

Then  to  the  clown  if  Love  be  king  no  more  — 

Open  the  door! 


24 


THE  SEVEN  SONGS  OF  PENITENCE 

i 

LONG  since  I  wounded  him  I  love  the  best, 
And  all  that  night  my  pillow  knew  no  rest ; 

And  in  the  morning  I  arose,  and  lo! 
The  wound  I  gave  him  showed  on  mine  own  breast! 

Ah,  then  I  knew  how  terrible  the  blow. 

II 

Within  a  dream  one  night  I  spake  to  thee, 
"  What  is  this  road  of  thorns  and  misery 

That  stretches  from  my  dwelling  to  thy  door?  " 
And  thou,  "  The  road  that  leads  thee  back  to  me." 

Yet  I  will  walk  it  steadfastly,  O  friend, 
What  though  my  feet  be  bleeding  and  most  sore, 
So  thou  shalt  bind  them  for  me  at  the  end ! 

in 

I  sent  my  longing  for  thee  like  a  bird 
To  sing  without  thy  door  a  certain  word, 
The  word  of  penitence  most  exquisite ; 

And  weary  in  the  morning  it  returned 
And  said,  "  Against  his  pane  all  night  unheard 
I  beat  my  wings,  and  when  the  red  dawn  burned 
One  drew  the  casement  close  and  fastened  it." 

IV 

Beloved,  are  the  tears  I  shed  for  thee 
Less  than  white  roses  thrown  for  majesty 

To  trample  on  with  cruel,  careless  feet? 
Nay,  pass  not  unregarding.     Pause  and  see. 

Grown  with  such  pain  they  surely  must  be  sweet. 
25 


THE  SEVEN  SONGS  OF  PENITENCE 


So  much  I  missed  my  joy  that  everywhere 
I  sought  it  —  by  each  corridor  and  stair; 

Yea,  sought  and  called  until  my  voice  was  dumb, 
Yet  all  the  while  I  knew  it  was  not  there, 

But  waits  within  thy  dwelling  till  I  come. 

VI 

Sometimes  at  night  within  thy  vacant  chair 
I  bid  another  sit  with  face  as  fair, 

And  laugh  and  drink  red  wine  and  force  my  heart 
To  braggart  boasting  that  we  do  not  care; 
But  when  the  gray  dawn  climbs  its  windy  stair, 

Truthful  I  waken  in  the  old  grief's  might 
And  cry  unto  the  heart  I  bade  forswear, 

"  Ah,  Liar,  how  we  lied  to  Love  last  night!  " 

VII 

The  door  of  my  poor  house  for  thee  is  wide 

As  bridegroom  swings  the  door  that  waits  the  bride, 

But  my  impatience  is  so  great  a  thing 
I  may  not  light  my  lamps  and  wait  inside, 

But  I  am  gone  to  meet  thee  ere  the  day 
To  cry  to  thee  afar  my  welcoming. 

O  friend,  thy  feet  are  slow  upon  the  way! 


26 


DEFEATED 

I  FOUGHT  a  battle  for  my  friend, 

Adroitly,  skilfully, 
Love  lent  me  wit  to  thrust,  defend  — 

Herself  mine  enemy. 

This  way  and  that  the  battle  went  — 

Ah,  we  were  wary  foes! 
Against  my  force  of  argument 

Her  stubborn  will  uprose. 

Her  very  weakness  lent  her  strength, 

Yet  strove  I  valiantly; 
I  conquered  for  my  friend  at  length  — 

Herself,  the  victory. 

God  knows  a  bloodless  battlefield, 

Yet  marvel,  at  the  end 
I  lost  what  most  I  grieved  to  yield, 

For  whom  I  fought  —  my  friend. 


WHILE  MARY  DREAMED 

SHE  dreamed  her  mother-dream  —  the  kine 

Stood  silent  in  their  stalls ; 
The  moonlight  through  the  stable  door 

Fell  as  white  water  falls, 
And  in  its  wake  a  shadow  loomed 

Cross-fashioned  on  the  walls. 
("  How  fair  He  is,  this  little  son  of  mine!") 

She  dreamed  her  mother-dream  —  while  yet 

His  head  upon  her  breast 
Had  lain  so  short  a  time  that  scarce 

It  seemed  its  softness  pressed 
More  than  the  thought  of  him  who  long 

She  yearned  for,  unpossessed. 
("  So  wonderful,  so  strange,  so  sweet  He  is!") 

She  dreamed  her  mother-dream  —  in  that 

First  hour  of  motherhood; 
Afar  men  followed  through  the  night 

A  star  whose  vast  light  stood 
In  highest  Heaven,  yet  to  her  door 

Dripped  a  red  flame  like  blood. 
("  Oh,  but  His  life  is  all  of  mine  to  hold!") 

She  dreamed  her  mother-dream  —  forgot 

For  that  one  hour's  brief  space 
Was  fear  of  Heaven's  mysteries; 

His  hand  against  her  face 
Was  as  a  white  rose  petal  blown 

Across  her  lips'  soft  grace. 
("  Oh,  very  beautiful  His  life  s^all  &?/") 

28 


WHILE  MARY  DREAMED 

She  dreamed  her  mother-dream  —  without 

Came  fast  great  kings  and  wise ; 
There  crept  no  shadow  through  her  bliss 

Of   olden    prophecies; 
So  still  He  was  —  she  might  not  know 

The  tears  within  His  eyes. 
("Strong  shall  He  be  and  wise  and  well  beloved!") 

She  dreamed  her  mother-dream  —  nor  guessed 

One  wept  who  knew  what  pain 
Would  blur  the  anguish  of  her  eyes, 

That  sought  His  own  in  vain 
What  time  on  Calvary's  bleak  height 

Her  heart  should  break  in  twain. 
(Like  a  great  Cross  the  shadow  on  the  wall!) 


29 


THE  GUEST  DENIED 

LOVE,  I  have  given  nothing,  taken  all. 

I  would  indeed  it  had  been  otherwise, 
That  in  your  hands  I  let  my  bounty  fall, 

That  at  your  feet  I  placed  my  sacrifice. 

Seeing  that  now  a  suppliant's  patient  eyes 
Seem  ever  in  my  own,  too  well  I  know 

How  one  who  busied  in  the  day  denies 
A  little  child's  caress  and  bids  him  go, 

Turns  in  remorseful  dreams  to  where  he  stands 

With  wistful,  wondering  eyes  and  empty  hands. 

I  have  denied  you  shelter ;  at  my  door 

You  cried  in  vain  and  I  was  deaf  to  you; 
Yet,  if  some  night  I  went  all  desolate, 
Blown  by  strange  winds  adown  the  ways  of  Fate, 

It  is  your  threshold  I  should  struggle  to, 
All  confident  of  greeting,  yea,  all  sure 

Of  eager  arms,  the  welcome  and  the  kiss 
That  holds  all  comforting.     I  know  not  why, 
Yet  I  unfaithful  dare  to  count  you  true 

And  am  no  surer  of  my  saints  than  this. 

I  said  to  Love,  "  Of  these  my  very  tears 
Behold  I  make'  a  wine  for  thy  delight. 
Drink  and  be  glad  ere  yet  we  part  this  night 
Upon  the  threshold  of  the  sundering  years. 

Yea,  pledge  me  now  in  this  my  sorrow's  sign." 
Then  Love,  the  while  he  turned  from  me,  "  Oh,  child, 
Sweeter  were  mirth  of  hearts  impenitent  — 

The  tears  of  pity  make  but  bitter  wine. 
Better  to  go  athirst,"  he  said  and  smiled. 
I  wish  he  had  not  smiled  so  as  he  went. 
30 


THE  LIVING  SEA 

HOW  like  the  city  is  unto  the  sea: 

The  mighty  wave  of  commerce  breaks  and  beats 
In  restless  surges  through  the  noisy  streets, 

Swayed  by  the  master  tide  of  energy. 

How  many  derelicts,  long  morn  to  morn, 

Drift  at  the  mercy  of  the  wind  and  wave  — 
The  flotsam  and  the  jetsam  of  the  pave  — 

Deserted,  rudderless  and  tempest-torn. 

Here  move  great  argosies  with  gold  and  bales, 

Staunch  ships  that  dare  the  cunning  currents'  might, 
And  through  their  long  procession  dart  the  light, 

Swift  pleasure  craft  with  sun-emblazoned  sails. 

Yet,  am  I  minded  only  of  one  thing  — 

How  much  —  how  much  these  smiling  waters  drown. 
Dear  God,  what  wrecks  this  very  day  went  down, 

Unhailed,  unsignalled  and  unsignalling ! 


THE  LAST  NIGHT 

LOW  moon  behind  the  fishers'  huts, 

Long  shadows  on  the  sands, 
And  blown  sea-spray  that  fogs  the  way  — 

(Love,  let  me  find  thy  hands)  — 
The  little  lights  o'  the  little  town  — 

How  far  above  they  lie  — 
Like  blurred  stars  set  in  a  sky  of  jet 

When  the  driven  mist  is  high. 

And  to-morrow  sails  the  fishing  fleet 
(Thine  eyes  —  thine  eyes  to  me!) 

To-night,  alone  is  all  our  own  — 
(And  Mary  comfort  thee!) 

The  long  wave  breaks  like  woman's  sobs 

Against  the  harboured  ships; 
Thy  face  is  white  as  foam  at  night  — 

(Love,  let  me  find  thy  lips)  ; 
What  prayer  is  left  for  me  to  pray, 

What  vow  is  left  unsaid 
Man  hath  not  sworn  to  life  unborn 

Or  whispered  to  the  dead  ? 

And  to-morrow  sails  the  fishing  fleet 
(Thy  mouth,  thy  mouth  for  me!) 

To-night  alone  is  all  our  own  — 
(And  Mary  comfort  thee!) 


KNOWLEDGE 

I  HAVE  known  sorrow  —  therefore  I 
May  laugh  with  you,  O  friend,  more  merrily 
Than  those  who  never  sorrowed  upon  earth 
And  know  not  laughter's  worth. 

I  have  known  laughter  —  therefore  I 
May  sorrow  with  you  far  more  tenderly 
Than  those  who  never  knew  how  sad  a  thing 
Seems  merriment  to  one  heart's  suffering. 


33 


THE  TEARS  OF  HARLEQUIN 

TO  you  he  gave  his  laughter  and  his  jest, 
His  words  that  of  all  words  were  merriest, 

His  glad,  mad  moments  when  the  lights  flared  high 
And  his  wild  song  outshrilled  the  plaudits'  din. 

For  you  that  memory,  but  happier  I  — 
I,  who  have  known  the  tears  of  Harlequin. 

Not  mine  those  moments  when  the  roses  lay 
Like  red  spilled  wine  on  his  triumphant  way, 

And  shouts  acclaimed  him  through  the  music's  beat, 
Above  the  voice  of  flute  and  violin. 

But  I  have  known  his  hour  of  sore  defeat  — 
I  —  I  have  known  the  tears  of  Harlequin. 

Light  kisses  and  light  words,  they  were  not  mine  — 
Poor  perquisites  of  many  a  Columbine 

Bought  with  his  laughter,  flattered  by  his  jest; 
But  when  despair  broke  through  the  painted  grin, 

His  tortured  face  has  fallen  on  my  breast  — 
I  —  I  have  known  the  tears  of  Harlequin. 

You  weep  for  him,  who  look  upon  him  dead, 
That  joy  and  jest  and  merriment  are  fled ; 

You  weep  for  him,  what  time  my  eyes  are  dry, 
Knowing  what  peace  a  weary  soul  may  win 

Stifled  by  too  much  masking  —  even  I  — 
I,  who  have  known  the  tears  of  Harlequin. 


34 


THE  DREAM  OF  THE  INNKEEPER'S  WIFE 
"Because  there  was  no  room  for  them  in  the  inn!' 

THE  childless  mother  rose  from  sleep 

While  yet  there  was  no  light, 
And  thrust  aside  the  casement  wide 

With  hands  that  shook  from  fright, 
And  leaned  far  out,  and  all  about 

A  wild  storm  tore  the  night. 

"  Oh,  but  this  dream  hath  pierced  my  heart ; 

Since  I  was  lain  in  bed 
Methought  mine  own  dead  little  son, 

Who  never  word  hath  said, 
Stood  at  my  knee  and  spake  to  me 

As  one  uncomforted. 

"  '  And,  mother,  oh,  my  mother,'  he  said, 

*  The  night  is  dread  and  drear, 
But  housed  and  warm  from  hurt  and  storm 

Ye  sleep  and  know  no  fear, 
Though  in  the  wold  one  cried  with  cold 

Ye  did  not  hark  nor  hear. 

"  '  And  staunch  and  strong  thy  roof-tree  is, 

And  filled  my  father's  inn, 
And  every  guest  hath  food  and  rest, 

Yet  this  night  through  their  din 
Soft  at  thy  door  did  one  implore 

Who  entrance  could  not  win. 

35 


THE  DREAM  OF  THE  INNKEEPER'S  WIFE 

And,  mother,  oh,  my  mother,'  he  said, 

'  Go  take  the  linen  fine 
Where  one  time  I  did  softly  lie, 

The  pillow  that  was  mine, 
For  sick  and  sore  on  thy  stable  floor 

One  travails   'mongst  the  kine.' 

"What  was  it  of  a  star  he  spake? 

My  thoughts  are  shifting  sand  — 
What  else  I  heard  fell  strange  and  blurred, 

I  might  not  understand, 
Yet  did  it  seem  not  all  a  dream." 

Her  head  dropped  on  her  hand. 

I(  Yea,  of  a  child  new-born  he  spake, 

And  this  were  truth,  full  fain 
Were  I  to  fleet  through  wind  and  sleet 

To  where  my  kine  are  lain, 
If  on  my  breast  could  there  be  pressed 

A  little  head  again. 

"  Nay,  let  me  to  my  weary  bed 

And  bid  the  thought  go  by." 
She  bent  her  head,  the  tears  she  shed 

Fell  swift  and  silently. 
And  while  she  wept  a  great  star  leapt 

And  flamed  across  the  sky. 


TIME 

TIME  is  not  made  of  months  or  days 
Too  well  this  truth  I  know; 

Truly  the  hour  of  our  first  kiss 
Was  centuries  ago. 

Close,  close  our  parting  followed  it, 

Yet,  reckon  as  men  may, 
Surely  our  anguish  of  farewell 

Was  only  yesterday. 


37 


BALLAD  OF  TWO  SAINTS 

THERE  are  two  saints  in  Paradise 

Who  spake  of  little  earth, 
And  wonderful  they  are  and  wise 

And  know  their  wisdom's  worth, 
Though  the  years  they  lived  are  cold,  and  blown 

Like  ashes  from  a  hearth. 


And  one,  "  Within  a  market-place 

I  spake  a  certain  word, 
And  hatred  shone  on  every  face, 

And  they  reviled  who  heard; 
Yet  spake  I  but  on  earth  to-day 

How  earth  were  thrilled  and  stirred!  " 


And  one,  "  Unto  a  crowned  king 

I  spake  a  word  of  fear, 
And  I  was  broken  for  this  thing, 

Yea,  scourged  with  scorn  and  jeer  ; 
Yet  spake  I  upon  earth  to-day 

How  men  would  weep  to  hear !  " 

There  are  two  saints  in  Paradise  — 

Now  if  they  came  again 
To  walk  before  the  careless  eyes 

And  listless  heed  of  men, 
I  wonder  if  myself  would  go 

To  kneel  before  them  then. 
38 


BALLAD  OF  TWO  SAINTS 

There  are  two  saints  in  Paradise  — 
Dead  men  gave  heed  to  them, 

Yet  if  to-day  in  Heavenly  guise 
They   came    to   urge,    condemn, 

I  wonder  if  myself  would  go 
To  kiss  their  garments'  hem. 


39 


THE  GREEN  INN 

I  SICKEN  of  men's  company, 

The  crowded  tavern's  din, 
Where  all  day  long  with  oath  and  song 

Sit  they  who  entrance  win, 
So  come  I  out  from  noise  and  rout 

To  rest  in  God's  Green  Inn. 

Here  none  may  mock  an  empty  purse 

Or  ragged  coat  and  poor, 
But  Silence  waits  within  the  gates 

And  Peace  beside  the  door; 
The  weary  guest  is  welcomest, 

The  richest  pays  no  score. 

The  roof  is  high  and  arched  and  blue, 
The  floor  is  spread  with  pine; 

On  my  four  walls  the  sunlight  falls 
In  golden  flecks  and  fine; 

And  swift  and  fleet  on  noiseless  feet 
The  Four  Winds  bring  me  wine. 

Upon  my  board  they  set  their  store  — 
Great  drinks  mixed  cunningly 

Wherein  the  scent  of  furze  is  blent 
With  odour  of  the  sea; 

As  from  a  cup  I  drink  it  up 
To  thrill  the  veins  of  me. 


40 


THE  GREEN  INN 

It's  I  will  sit  in  God's  Green  Inn 

Unvexed  by  man  or  ghost, 
Yet  ever  fed  and  comforted, 

Companioned  by  mine  host, 
And  watched  at  night  by  that  white  light 

High  swung  from  coast  to  coast. 

O  you,  who  in  the  House  of  Strife 

Quarrel  and  game  and  sin, 
Come  out  and  see  what  cheer  may  be 

For  starveling  souls  and  thin 
Who  come  at  last  from  drought  and  fast 

To  sit  in  God's  Green  Inn. 


THE  SEA-BORN 

OH,  my  Heart, 

To  see  before  we  die 
The  black  clouds  gather 

Like  midnight  in  the  sky; 
And  watch  the  sea  rein  back 
Her  quivering,  white-maned  pack 

That  instant  ere  she  flings  them  free 
To  thunder  down  the  track. 

Oh,  my  Heart, 

But  once  to  watch  again 
The  East  wind  swinging 

The  stinging  whips  of  rain; 
To  feel  upon  my  face 
The  sharp,  salt  spray,  and  chase 

The  flying  foam  the  combers  fling 
Like  dust-clouds  in  their  race. 

Oh,  my  Heart, 

To  feel  again  the  warm 
Exultant  youth  within  us 

Go  shouting  with  the  storm, 
But  once  —  ere  yet  we  turn 
Where  peaceful  candles  burn 

Above  the  quiet  chimney-seat 
Where  Age  may  rest  —  and  yearn. 


42 


THE  STARS 

I  SHALL  walk  bravely,  bravely  through  my  days. 
Though  love,  that  flaming  torch  that  lighted  me, 
Has  dropped  away  in  darkness  utterly, 

I  shall  not  falter  on  these  unguessed  ways, 
Nor  cry  aloud  for  any  spark  to  see 
The  forward  step,  lest,  failing,  I  may  be 

A  lost  thing  dazed  and  wailing  in  the  haze. 

For  God,  who  gives  each  soul  its  certain  light, 
Will  leave  me  not  in  darkness.     For  a  space 
I  may  go  blindly  where  no  guidance  bars, 

Yet,  confident  that  in  this  torchless  night, 
Sudden  shall  break  above  my  upturned  face 
The  white,  unchanging  radiance  of  the  stars. 


43 


THE  UNATTAINED 

I  AM  the  lark,  dear  soul,  and  you 
That  Heaven  he  aspires  to 

What  time  he  sings. 
Perchance  if  Heaven  were  nearer  he 
Had  dared  no  height  with  melody 

Nor  found  his  wings. 


44 


JOHN  OJ  DREAMS 

WHAT  a  world  that  was  you  planned  us  - 

Made  of  Summer  and  the  sea, 
Where  the  very  wind  that  fanned  us 

Drifted  down  from  Arcady. 
There  where  never  Fate  might  sunder 

Rose  your  castle's  shining  beams. 
Are  you  there  to-day,  I  wonder, 

John  o'  Dreams? 

That  was  but  a  trick  Life  played  you 

When  this  planet  knew  your  birth, 
When  she  trapped  your  soul  and  made  you 

One  of  us  on  dreary  earth. 
Since  for  you  what  fancies  crossed  it, 

Lures  of  alien  stars  and  streams, 
Have  you  found  the  path  or  lost  it, 

John  o'  Dreams? 

Just  a  little  day  in  May-time 

Once  I  took  the  road  with  you ; 
Just  a  boy  and  girl  in  play-time 

With  a  vision  to  pursue. 
I  but  glimpsed  the  glow  around  it 

Ere  I  turned,  and  yet  it  seems 
Sometimes  that  you  surely  found  it, 

John  o'  Dreams. 


45 


THE  FOOLISH  FOLK 

BETWEEN  Life's  gates  of  mystery 

Throng  solemn  men  and  wise, 
With  scales  to  weigh  the  things  that  be, 

To  sift,  reject  and  prize; 
Long  bowed  beneath  their  wisdom's  yoke 

They  ponder  as  is  meet, 
But  we,  we  be  the  foolish  folk 

Who  know  the  world  is  sweet. 

Scholar  and  sage  and  fearful  priest, 

They  trudge  a  dismal  quest, 
And  marvel  if  the  great  be  least 

Or  if  the  least  be  best; 
Weighs  each  the  worth  of  prince  or  hind 

'Neath  cowl  and  cap  and  hood, 
But  we,  we  be  the  foolish  kind 

Who  know  the  world  is  good. 

Within  the  dust  of  yesterdays 

Their  gaunt  hands  dip  and  stir; 
They  ponder  on  to-morrow's  ways 

And  guess,  distrust,  aver; 
Yesterday's  fault,  to-morrow's  sin 

Their  withered  lips  repeat, 
But  we,  we  be  the  foolish  kin 

Who  know  to-day  is  sweet. 

Oh,  wise  men  of  the  sombre  heart, 

We  be  of  little  worth, 
Who  play  our  useless  games  apart 

And  take  our  joy  of  earth ; 

46 


THE  FOOLISH  FOLK 

God's  mirth  when  this  His  world  awoke 

Ye  have  not  understood  — 
We  only  heard,  we  foolish  folk 

Who  know  that  life  is  good. 


47 


STAINS 

THE  three  ghosts  on  the  lonesome  road 

Spake  each  to  one  another, 
"  Whence  came  that  stain  about  your  mouth 

No  lifted   hand   may  cover?" 
"  From  eating  of  forbidden  fruit, 

Brother,  my  brother." 

The  three  ghosts  on  the  sunless  road 

Spake  each  to  one  another, 
"  Whence  came  that  red  burn  on  your  foot 

No  dust  nor  ash  may  cover?  " 
"  I  stamped  a  neighbour's  hearth-flame  out, 

Brother,  my  brother." 

The  three  ghosts  on  the  windless  road 

Spake  each  to  one  another, 
"  Whence  came  that  blood  upon  your  hand 

No  other  hand  may  cover?" 
"  From  breaking  of  a  woman's  heart, 

Brother,  my  brother." 

"  Yet  on  the  earth  clean  men  we  walked, 
Glutton  and  Thief  and  Lover; 

White  flesh  and  fair  it  hid  our  stains 
That  no  man  might  discover." 

"  Naked  the  soul  goes  up  to  God, 
Brother,  my  brother." 


48 


A  PETITION 

HERE  among  your  poppy  fields, 

Idleness,  I  pray  you, 
Let  me  wander  lazy-eyed, 

Slow  of  thought  and  pace ; 
Empty-handed,  light  of  heart, 

Eager  to  obey  you, 
To  loaf  and  make  a  madrigal 

Tuned  to  fit  your  face. 

Sick  am  I  of  strife  and  toil, 

I  would  seek  your  daisies, 
Count  the  clouds  and  doze  and  dream 

Through  drowsy  afternoons. 
Prithee,  take  me  by  the  hand  — 

Show  me  where  the  way  is  — 
Let  me  change  the  clink  of  gold 

For  your  linnets'  tunes. 

Idleness!     O  Idleness, 

Smile  a  welcome  for  me; 
Here's  a  minstrel  out  of  voice, 

A  weary  heart  to  rest. 
Soothe  me  with  the  pipes  of  Pan, 

Hum  his  music  o'er  me, 
Rock  me  like  a  tired  child 

Sleepy  on  your  breast. 


49 


THE  FIRST  DAY 

I  SLEEP,  who  yesterday  was  tired, 

I,  who  was  very  weary,  rest, 
I  have  forgot  all  things  desired 

Or,  what  were  bad  or  what  were  best; 

Wan  roses  lie  upon  my  breast 
And  make  a  pillow  for  my  head; 

I  know  not  am  I  banned  or  blest, 
Who  am  most  quiet  —  being  dead. 

Perchance  to-morrow  God  may  come 
With  awfulness  of  mouth  and  brow, 

And  bid  me  speak,  who  would  be  dumb, 
My  sins  of  yesterday ;  but  now, 
I  have  forgotten  deed  and  vow, 

I  have  been  soothed  and  comforted, 

And  clothed  with  peace,  I  know  not  how, 

Who  am  most  happy  —  being  dead. 

A  moment  since  one  touched  my  hair  — 

There  were  hot  tears  upon  my  face  ; 
To-morrow  I  may  wake  and  care 

And  hunger  for  a  lost  embrace; 

But  now,  one  dim,  delicious  space, 
My  joys  are  done,  my  tears  are  shed  ; 

I  may  lie  still,  who  have  the  grace 
Of  all  forgetting  —  being  dead. 


MARIONETTES 

THE  poor  little,  pitiful  things  — 
Each  boasted  a  full  control 
Of  purpose  and  mind  and  soul  ; 
Each  thought  by  his  separate  will 
He  walked,  danced,  fell,  stood  still; 
They  never  suspected  the  strings 
That  dangled  them  here  and  there 
Through  rapture,  grief  or  despair, 
That  held  them  in  pairs  and  sets  — 
The  poor  little  marionettes. 

When  they  went  each  night  on  the  stage 
In  the  paste-board  theatre's  space, 
When  they  danced  there,  face  to  face, 
Each  thought  it  wish  of  his  own 
That  brought  them  together,  alone, 
Each  thought  it  her  pride,  his  rage, 
The  strength  of  each  tinsel  heart 
That  forced  them  to  scorn,  to  part 
In  the  light  of  the  candle-jets  — 
The  poor  little  marionettes. 

Each  gave  himself  praise  or  blame, 
The  poor  little,  pitiful  things 
That  never  suspected  the  strings, 
That  never  guessed  that  they  hung, 
Pirouetted  or  parted,  swung 


MARIONETTES 

By  the  hand  that  planned  the  game; 
Each  flattered  himself  that  he 
Made  his  own,  sole  destiny, 

His  raptures,  fears  and  regrets  — 
The  poor  little  marionettes. 

Ah  well!     Is  it  worth  a  sigh 
From  us  who  are  sure  of  this: 
That  we  won  for  ourselves  love's  kiss, 
That  we  made  our  time  and  hour, 
Grew  joy  from  bud  to  flower? 
We  can  laugh  at  them,  you  and  I, 
At  the  poor  little,  pitiful  things 
That  never  suspected  the  strings. 
Mere  shadows  and  silhouettes  — 
The  poor  little  marionettes. 


FLEURETTE 

(An  Epitaph) 

THIS  is  she  who  was  Fleurette  — 
Something  hardly  woman,  just 
One  to  smile  at,  scarce  to  trust ; 
Something  delicate,  unstyled 
'Twixt  a  flower  and  a  child, 
Too  exquisite  to  regret  — 
Fleurette. 

This  is  she  who  was  Fleurette  — 
She  whose  laughter  was  as  light 
As  the  moon-snow  in  the  night; 
She  whose  heart  was  like  a  bird 
At  a  whisper  thrilled  and  stirred, 
Bird-like  ready  to  forget  — 
Fleurette. 

This  is  she  who  was  Fleurette  — 
She  whose  gay  eyes  never  knew 
One  harsh  word  to  stain   their  blue; 
She  whose  lips  were  never  lent 
Save  to  kiss  or  merriment, 
Just  for  mirth  and  music  set  — 
Fleurette. 

This  is  she  who  was  Fleurette  — 
She  who  never  woman-wise 
Carried  love  in  her  sweet  eyes  ; 

53 


FLEURETTE 

If  she  knew  it  —  ah,  who  knows  ? 

Can  we  ask  love  from  a  rose, 
Pity  from  a  violet? 
Fleurette. 

This  is  she  who  was  Fleurette  — 
Flower-like  she  lived  and  died 
One  brief  Springtime  glorified ; 
Something  far  too  fair  to  stay 
For  the  coming  of  things  gray 
When  the  winds  of  Winter  fret  — 
Fleurette. 

This  is  she  who  was  Fleurette  — 
To  be  sighed  for,  wished  for,  say 
As  a  rose  of  yesterday; 

Thought  of  'twixt  a  smile  and  sigh, 
Yet  to-day,  I  wonder  why, 
As  I  smile  my  eyes  are  wet  — 
Fleurette. 


54 


DISTANCE 

WE  have  clasped  hands  again,  ah  true, 
We  have  no  quarrel  —  that  is  done  — 
But  nevermore  beneath  the  sun 

Comes  back  to  me  that  friend  I  knew. 

We  shall  break  bread  together;  men 
May  mark  no  difference  in  our  ways, 
But  only  through  my  yesterdays 

The  friend  I  loved  shall  walk  again. 

We   have   forgiven  —  act   and   speech 

Have  proved  it.     Who  shall  then  surmise 
That  space  between  our  hearts  that  lies 

Unbridged  —  beyond  all  sound  or  reach ! 


55 


AFTERMATH 

WHEN  I  am  old  and  very  tired, 
A  presence  near  a  chimney-place, 
With  folded  hands  and  quiet  face, 

Loving  no  more,  no  more  desired, 

God  grant  one  memory  to  me 

Shall  ghost-like  waver  through  the  gloom, 

And  silent  in  a  silent  room 
Come  close  to  bear  me  company. 

And  those  who  pass  perchance  shall  smile 
With  wondering  eyes  upon  me  bent. 
11  How  still  she  sits,  in  what  content, 

Who  lingers  yet  a  little  while." 

They  shall  not  guess,  those  over-wise, 
How  through  the  calm  content  of  me 
The  face  of  that  mad  memory 

Leans  close  and  smiles  within  my  eyes. 

Until  I  feel  in  very  truth 

The  girl-heart  thrilling  in  my  breast 
What  time  upon  my  own  are  pressed 

The  passionate  warm  lips  of  Youth. 

And  they  shall  pity  who  but  see 

Dead  ashes  where  the  flames  were  bold, 
A  woman  sad  and  very  old 

Who  sits  in  silence  patiently. 

56 


A  SONG  OF  MARY 

NOW  wheresoe'er  she  came 
The  lilies  like  white  flame 
Sprang  up  to  meet  her  feet, 
And  everywhere  the  stir, 
The  mystic  rhyme  and  beat 
Of  music  moved  with  her, 
(Oh,  Virgin,  meek  and  sweet!) 
Long  days  before  the  morn 
When  the  Lord  Christ  was  born. 

Whoe'er  she  looked  upon, 
The  meanest,  humblest  one, 
Grew  wonderful  of  face; 

The  child  she  bent  to  kiss 
Of  her  diviner  grace 

Stood  with  God's  lips  on  his 
For  that  dear  moment's  space, 
Long  days  before  the  morn 
When  the  Lord  Christ  was  born. 

And  wheresoe'er  she  went 
The  blossomed  branches  bent 
Above  her  head  for  shade, 

Knowing  herself  the  Spring, 
Oh,  maiden  unafraid, 

Wherein  the  blossoming 
Of  the  whole  world  was  laid, 
Long  days  before  the  morn 
When  the  Lord  Christ  was  born. 


57 


THE  APOSTLE 

LOVE  came  so  near  to  me  that  I 
Felt  the  air  stir  as  he  went  by; 
And  for  a  space  his  garment's  hem 

Touched  me,  the  while  with  rapid  feet 
He  went  his  way.     Am  I  not  one  of  them, 

Therefore,  to  tell  all  men  that  Love  is  sweet? 

Love  came  so  near  to  me,  awhile 
I  saw  the  wonder  of  his  smile 
Albeit  he  smiled  not  on  me. 

I,  who  have  seen  his  godlihood, 
May  not  my  voice  'mongst  his  apostles  be 

To  cry  unto  all  men  that  Love  is  good  ? 

Love  came  so  near,  so  near  to  me, 
That  still  I  feel  what  bliss  might  be 
Had  he  but  paused  a  little  space. 

Ah,  longing  that  has  no  relief, 
Am  I  not  one  of  those  whose  tears  have  grace 

To  cry  unto  all  men  that  Love  is  grief  ? 


A  THANKSGIVING 

LONG  enough  have  I  lived  and  sought  to  know  the  value 

of  things, 
To  know  the  gold  from  the  tinsel,  to  judge  the  clowns  from 

the  kings; 
Love  have  I  known  and  been  glad  of,  joys  of  the  earth  have 

been  mine, 
But  to-day  do  I  give  my  thanks  for  a  rarer  gift  and  fine. 

For  the  friendship   of  true  women,  Lord,   that  hath   been 

since  the  world  had  breath, 
Since  a  woman  stood  at  a  woman's  side  to  comfort  through 

birth  and  death. 
You  have  made  us  a  bond  of  mirth  and  tears  to  last  forever 

and  aye  — 
For  the  friendship  of  true  women,  Lord,  take  you  my  thanks 

to-day. 

Now  much  have  I  found  to  be  glad  of,  much  have  I  sor 
rowed  for, 

But  naught  is  better  to  hear  than  foot  of  a  friend  at  the 
door ; 

And  naught  is  better  to  feel  than  the  touch  of  a  sister  hand 

That  says,  "  What  are  words  between  us  —  I  know  and  may 
understand." 

For  the  friendship  of  true  women,  Lord,  that  hath  lasted 

since  time  began, 
That  is  deeper  far  and  finer  far  than  the  friendship  of  man 

to  man; 

59 


A  THANKSGIVING 

For  the  tie  of  a  kinship  wonderful  that  holds  us  as  blood- 
bonds  may  — 

For  the  friendship  of  true  women,  Lord,  take  you  my  thanks 
to-day. 

Many  the  joys  I  have  welcomed,  many  the  joys  that  have 

passed, 
But  this  is  the  good  unfailing  and  this  is  the  peace  that 

shall  last; 
From  love  that  dies  and  love  that  lies  and  love  that  must 

cling  and  sting 
Back  to  the  arms  of  our  sisters  we  turn  for  our  comforting. 

For  the  friendship  of  true  women,  Lord,  that  hath  been  and 
ever  shall  be 

Since  a  woman  stood  at  a  woman  s  side  at  the  cross  of 
Calvary; 

For  the  tears  we  weep  and  the  trusts  we  keep  and  the  self 
same  prayers  we  pray  — 

For  the  friendship  of  true  women,  Lord,  take  you  my  thanks 
to-day. 


60 


THE  TORCH 

LORD,  let  me  be  the  torch  that  springs  to  light 

And  lives  its  life  in  one  exultant  flame, 
One  leap  of  living  fire  against  the  night 

Dropping  to  darkness  even  as  it  came. 
For  I  have  watched  the  smouldering  of  a  soul 

Choked  in  the  ashes  that  itself  hath  made, 
Waiting  the  slow  destruction  of  the  whole, 

And  turned  from  it,  bewildered  and  afraid. 

Light  me  with  love  —  with  hate  —  with  all  desire 
For  that  I  may  not  reach,  but  let  me  burn 

My  little  moment  in  pulsating  fire 
Ere  yet  into  the  darkness  I  return; 

Be  it  for  guard,  or  menace,  peace  or  sword, 
Make  me  thy  torch  to  burn  out  swiftly,  Lord. 


61 


DEFIANCE 

YOU  have  hounded  me  well,  my  Lady  Life, 
You  have  beaten  and  bruised  and  bent, 

But  ever  I  stayed  me  amid  the  strife 
To  turn  you  a  compliment. 

You  may  cozen  me  there  and  trick  me  here  — 
Your  way  with  a  soul  long  since  — 

But  I'll  mock  before  I'll  plead,  my  dear, 
And  I'll  boast  before  I  wince. 

Why,  think  you  to  make  me  a  captive  cowed  ? 

That  day  that  you  slay,  I  swear 
I  will  kiss  my  finger-tips  to  the  crowd 

And  jest  with  the  headsman  there. 


62 


THE  WIFE 

LET  me  be  steadfast,  Lord,  nor  pray  you  make 
This  heart  of  mine  a  weakling  thing  to  break; 

Still  let  its  strength  endure  unto  that  day 
He  pleads  its  sheltering  for  old  love's  sake 

When  all  the  hounds  of  Hate  are  on  his  way. 

I  pray  you,  Lord,  let  not  my  laughter  fail; 
Set  still  the  curve  of  it  on  lips  grown  pale, 

Seeing  that  one  day  he  may  crave  their  mirth 
As  men  forespent  may  yearn  through  snow  and  gale 

The  dear,  accustomed  warmth  of  home  and  hearth. 

Give  me  all  faith,  dear  Lord,  that  trusting  so 
I  may  not  guess  how  futile  is  the  glow 

Of  this  poor  lamp  —  how  vain  the  wide-flung  door. 
Feed  me  with  patience,  Lord,  nor  let  me  know 

How  many  starved  on  this  brave  hope  before. 


63 


THE  MARCH 

I,  WHO  was  very  weary,  turn  again 
To  face  the  journey  of  the  winding  day, 

To  take  my  place  amid  the  march  of  men 
And  be  as  brave  as  they. 

To  toil  —  to  dare  —  to  battle  —  to  rejoice 
Until  again  night  yields  us  resting  place  ; 

And  yet  I  have  not  heard  my  captain's  voice 
Nor  ever  seen  his  face. 

Nor  do  I  know  wherefore  we  strive  or  when 
The  strife  shall  end.     I  only  know  each  day 

I  take  my  place  amid  the  march  of  men 
And  listen  —  and  obey. 


64 


TO-MORROW 

"  TO-MORROW  "  and  "  To-morrow,"  so  you  say 
To-morrow  and  your  lips  are  mine  to  kiss. 

Who  knows  but  when  that  red  sun  goes  his  way 
He  may  not  light  another  day  than  this? 

What  if  to-morrow  in  Death's  borderland, 

Two  wistful,  pulseless  ghosts,  we  meet  and  say, 

With  groping  hands  that  touch  no  other  hand, 
"  God  pity  us  —  we  wasted  yesterday!  " 


65 


BALLAD  OF  EVE'S  RETURN 

'TWAS  Eve  came  back  to  Paradise 
And  paused  without  the  gate; 

The  angels  with  the  flaming  swords 
Stood  each  beside  the  grate  — 

And  clean-white  was  one  sword  like  love, 
And  one  was  red  like  hate. 

The  white  hosts  leaned  from  Heaven  to  see 

The  woman  of  first  sin; 
Above  her  head  the  burning  blades 

Crossed  menacing  and  thin, 
And  lo!  a  great  voice  spake  through  space, 

"  My  people,  let  her  in !  " 

Down  dropped  the  swrords  on  either  side, 
The  thrice-barred  gate  swung  free; 

Blossomed  and  bright  and  beckoning 
Stirred  sun-filled  flower  and  tree, 

But  Eve  stood  still  without  the  gate, 
Nor  wistfully  spake  she, 

"  Afar  my  strong  man  breaks  the  soil, 

And  as  he  toils  he  sings 
That  I  may  know  that  still  his  love 

Grows  with  earth's  growing  things. 
An  I  came  in  who  else  might  lean 

To  greet  his  homecomings? 


66 


BALLAD  OF  EVE'S  RETURN 

"  And  what  to  me  were  Paradise 

And  languid  days  of  ease 
Seeing  the  peace  that  springs  from  toil 

Is  lovelier  than  these, 
What  time,  at  evenfall  we  two 

Rest  'neath  our  new-grown  trees." 

The  thrice-barred  gate  swung  free  and  wide  • 

Smiling  she  shook  her  head, 
"  An  I  came  in  what  place  would  be 

For  one  beside,"  she  said, 
"  Who  failing  my  two  arms  to-night 

Would  weep  uncomforted. 

11  And  what  to  me  were  Paradise 
Since  I  have  known  the  best  — 

My  true  mate's  eyes  within  my  eyes, 
The  man-child  at  my  breast, 

Their  exquisite,  dear  need  of  me 
That  makes  me  wholly  blest." 

The  thrice-barred  gate  swung  free  and  wide 

To  show  the  sun-filled  way; 
The  blossomed  heights  of  Paradise 

Lured  her  as  live  things  may. 
'Twas  Eve  who  stood  without  the  gate 

And  laughed  and  turned  away. 


BALLAD  OF  EVE'S  RETURN 

Aghast,  amazed,  the  hosts  of  Heaven 
Broke  forth  in  'wildered  cries, 

"  Where,  then,  is  that  her  punishment 
Thou  didst  devise,  Most  Wise, 

What  time  Thy  vengeance  drove  her  forth 
Outcast  from  Paradise  ?  " 

Beneath  the  answering  voice  they  bent 
As  wind-swayed  forests  move, 

"  My  people,  of  this  woman's  word 
Take  ye  the  truth  thereof; 

Learn  ye  thus  late  her  punishment 
Came  not  of  hate  but  love! 

"  Wiser  than  ye  is  she  who  guessed 

My  meaning  over  long; 
Love  cast  her  forth  from  Paradise  — 

Now  when  hath  love  wrought  wrong?  " 

*  *  *  *  * 

And  suddenly  the  courts  of  Heaven 

Thrilled  with  adoring  song. 


68 


EXPERIENCE 

LITTLE  SISTER,  if  I  told  you  of  the  way 
Wherein  my  feet  went  straying  yesterday, 

If  I  warned  you  of  the  pitfalls  and  the  snares, 
Would  you  straight  forgo  your  Maying  for  my  prayers, 
And,  lest  you  too  might  wander,  pause  and  stay? 
Nay,  not  so  — 
Where  other  feet  have  gone,  your  feet  must  go. 

Little  Sister,  if  I  showed  without  disguise 
My  thorn-pierced  hands  and  wounded  to  your  eyes, 
Would  you  turn  aside  from  roses  warily 
Lest  you  too  feel  the  thorns  no  man  may  see  ? 
Would  you  watch  them  bloom  and  beckon  —  and  be  wise  ? 
Nay,  not  so  — 
You  too  must  have  your  will  where  roses  blow. 

Little  Sister,  if  I  showed  my  heart  to  you, 
With  too  much  loving  bruised  and  broken  through, 
Would  you  keep  your  own  a  white  and  hidden  thing 
From  that  strange  joy  whose  end  is  sorrowing? 
Would  you  take  my  scars  for  sign  this  thing  is  true? 
Nay,  not  so  — 
Your  heart  must  learn  what  wiser  hearts  may  know. 


69 


INERTIA 

I  NEED  you  so  —  you  need  me  not  at  all 

This  is  the  bitterest  of  bitter  things; 

You  make  my  love  the  puny  plant  that  clings 
To  the  firm  granite  of  a  mighty  wall, 
Helpless  to  aid  its  strength  or  stay  its  fall. 

I  would  not  have  you  weaker,  yet  I  know 
My  strength  had  grown  in  answer  to  your  call 

And  reached  its  highest  measure  striving  so. 
Now  I  but  lean  where  once  I  might  have  led 
^  If  you  had  craved  my  helping.     Now  I  stand 
Crippled  through  very  uselessness.     I  dread 

Lest  some  day  you  should  seek  a  guiding  hand 
And  I  shall  tremble  from  you  all  dismayed, 
Having  at  last  forgotten  how  to  aid. 


TWO  BROTHERS 

THE  dead  son's  mother  sat  and  wept 
And  her  live  son  plucked  at  her  gown, 

"  Oh,  mother,  long  is  the  watch  we've  kept!  " 
But  she  beat  the  small  hands  down. 

The  little  live  son  he  clung  to  her  knee  — 
And  frightened  his  eyes  and  dim  — 

"  Have  ye  never,  my  mother,  a  word  for  me?  " 
But  she  turned  her  face  from  him, 

Saying,  "  Oh  and  alack,  mine  own  dead  son, 
Could  I  know  but  the  path  a-right, 

How  fast  and  how  fast  my  feet  would  run 
Through  the  way  o'  Death  to-night !  " 

Saying,  "  Oh  and  alack,  for  thy  empty  place 
And  the  ache  in  my  heart  to  hide!  " 

The  little  live  son  hath  touched  her  face, 
But  she  thrust  his  hands  aside. 

The  mother  hath  laid  her  down  and  wept 
In  the  midnight's  chill  and  gloom ; 

In  the  hour  ere  dawn  while  the  mother  slept 
The  ghost  came  in  the  room. 

And  the  little  live  son  hath  called  his  name 

Or  ever  he  passed  the  door, 
"  Oh,  brother,  brother,  'tis  well  ye  came, 

For  our  mother's  grief  is  sore! 


TWO  BROTHERS 

"  Oh,  brother,  brother,  she  weeps  for  thee 

As  a  rain  that  beats  all  day, 
But  me  she  pushes  from  off  her  knee 

And  turneth  her  eyes  away." 

And  the  little  dead  son  he  spake  again, 

"  My  brother,  the  dead  have  grace 
Though  they  lay  them  low  from  the  sight  of  men 

With  a  white  cloth  on  their  face. 

"  Oh,  brother,  the  dead  have  gifts  of  love, 

Though  lonely  and  low  they  lie, 
By  my  mother's  love  do  I  speak  and  move 

And  may  not  wholly  die." 

The  little  live  son  he  sighed  apart, 

"  Oh,  brother,  ye  live,"  quoth  he, 
"  In  my  mother's  grief  and  my  mother's  heart 

And  my  mother's  memory. 

"  And  vain  for  thee  is  my  mother's  cry," 

The  little  live  son  hath  said, 
"  For  ye  are  loved  and  ye  may  not  die  — 

It  is  only  I  who  am  dead !  " 


72 


THE  INHERITANCE 

11  WHAT  left  thy  fathers  to  thee  when  they  died, 

Oh,  honest  neighbour?" 
"  Gold  pieces,  broad  and  fruitful  lands  and  wide, 

Surcease  from  labour." 
"  And  nothing  else?"     "What  better  could  there  be, 

Oh,  vagrant  daring 
Who  rests  an  hour  'neath  my  staunch  roof-tree 

From  onward  faring? 

"  What  left  thy  fathers  that  these  meet  thy  look 

With  such  dissavour?" 
"  Faith,  friend,  they  left  me  but  a  tattered  book 

And  this  lute's  favour. 
Yet  do  I  bear  much  wealth  within  my  hold, 

Oh,  poorer  brother, 
Seeing  the  pages  of  the  one  are  gold, 

Gold-voiced  the  other." 

"  For  thy  inheritance  I  would  not  fling 

A  silver  penny!  " 
"  Nay,  friend,  heaped  treasures  could  not  buy  this  thing 

Though  thou  hast  many. 
Fearful  of  losing  much  thou  e'en  must  pray 

Meek  prayers  and  troubled 
While  lightsomely  each  day  and  every  day 

My  wealth  is  doubled." 

"  Hast  thou  no  envy  of  my  flocks  and  kine, 

My  hearth  and  housing?  " 
"  Nay,  friend,  a  larger,  fairer  space  is  mine 

For  my  carousing. 

73 


THE  INHERITANCE 

Through  doonvays  low  or  high  my  song  hath  worth 

To  bid  me  enter. 
My  fathers  left  me  freedom  of  the  earth 

From  edge  to  centre! 

"  So  fare  thee  well,  mine  host,  the  night  goes  swift 

And  I  would  follow." 
"  Farewell,  my  King  o'  Tatters,  who  makes  shift 

Like  any  swallow." 
Farewell  they  said  —  I  saw  Sir  Pompous  glance 

His  puzzled  scorning, 
\Vhile  he  of  the  divine  inheritance 

Pressed  on  to  morning. 


74 


PIERRETTE 

THE  empty  street  was  gray  with  dawn, 
But  even-where  the  lamps  burned  still 

As  though  a  dead  man's  eyes  stared  on 
Through  some  undying  will. 

The  city  seemed  no  more  a  thing 

Than  some  great  door  she  might  not  move, 
That,  blank  and  all  unanswering, 

Barred  her  from  rest  and  love. 

The  morning  wind,  like  some  pale  ghost. 
Fretted  the  tavern's  creaking  sign 

As  though  it  whimpered  to  the  host 
For  sorrow's  anodyne. 

The  mist  clung  damply  to  her  dress. 

Dragging  the  listless,  tired  feet 
That  still  on  that  quest  purposeless, 

Toiled  up  and  down  the  street, 

And  grayed  the  hair's  pathetic  gold 

Where  one  day  Love's  own  hand  was  laid, 

And  wean-  she,  and  very  cold, 
And  bitterlv  afraid. 


PRESCIENCE 

WAS  there  any  sign  that  came  to  her 
Ere  the  dream  was  a  certain  thing? 

Nay  —  she  but  thought  she  heard  the  stir 
Of  the  closed  buds  blossoming. 

Was  there  any  sign  that  she  knew  at  all 
Ere  the  false  little  dream  took  wing? 

Nay  —  she  but  thought  she  felt  the  fall 
Of  a  snowflake  in  the  Spring. 


THE  WOUNDED 

IT  was  my  Beloved's  voice 

Hailed  and  called  me  in; 
He,  who  bade  the  lutes  exult 

Through  the  viol's  din, 
Kissed  me  thrice  upon  my  lips, 

Bade  the  feast  begin. 

It  was  my  Beloved's  hand 

Gave  me  bread  and  wine; 
He,  who  smiled  within  my  eyes, 

With  sweet  words  and  fine, 
Crowned  me  with  the  wreath  he  wore 

For  his  loving's  sign. 

It  was  my  Beloved's  hand 

Ere  the  dawn  was  blue, 
While  his  eyes  were  deep  in  mine, 

While  my  lips  he  knew, 
Sudden,  with  a  traitor's  blow, 

Stabbed  me  through  and  through. 

It  was  my  Beloved's  hand 

Thrust  me  to  the  ground. 
Mock,  O  you,  who,  stabbed  of  Hate, 

Pass  me,  healed  and  sound, 
Me,  who,  in  the  house  of  Love, 

Perish  of  my  wound. 


77 


THE  UNPOSSESSED 

MY  Heart's  Desire  hath  led  me 

Through  barren  lands  and  vain, 
And  bitter  bread  she  fed  me 

And  bade  me  drink  of  pain. 
Ah  me,  I  climbed  a  weary  way 

To  heights  of  her  disdain, 
Yet  would  I  give  the  years  I  live 

To  walk  the  path  again. 

The  Heart's  Possessed  beside  me 

Leads  me  a  level  way; 
There  may  no  ill  betide  me, 

No  thirst  or  famine  stay. 
She  hath  no  wish  but  wish  of  mine, 

No  joy  save  to  obey, 
And  at  my  side  her  form  must  bide 

Until  my  dying  day. 

My  Heart's  Possessed  hath  stilled  me 

From  all  unrest  malign; 
Yea,  eased  the  hope  that  thrilled  me 

With  too  keen  pain  and  fine. 
Yet,  oh,  my  Heart,  my  Heart's  Desire, 

My  ungained  dream  divine 
That  never  turned  the  while  I  yearned 

Nor  closed  her  hands  in  mine. 


THE  CLOSED  DOOR 

I  NEVER  crossed  your  threshold  with  a  grief 
But  that  I  went  without  it;  never  came 
Heart-hungry  but  you  fed  me,  eased  the  blame 

And  gave  the  sorrow  solace  and  relief. 

I  never  left  you  but  I  took  away 

The  love  that  drew  me  to  your  side  again 
Through  that  wide  door  that  never  could  remain 

Quite  closed  between  us  for  a  little  day. 

O  Friend,  who  gave  and  comforted,  who  knew 
So  over  well  the  want  of  heart  and  mind, 
Where  may  I  turn  for  solace  now,  or  find 

Relief  from  this  unceasing  loss  of  you? 

Be  it  for  fault,  for  folly  or  for  sin, 

Oh,  terrible  my  penance  and  most  sore  — 
To  face  the  tragedy  of  that  closed  door 

Whereby  I  pass  and  may  not  enter  in. 


79 


FAILURE 

OH,  long  and  dark  the  stairs  I  trod 
With  stumbling  feet  to  find  my  God. 

Gaining  a  foothold  bit  by  bit, 
Then  slipping  back  and  losing  it. 

Never  progressing,  striving  still 

With  weakening  grasp  and  fainting  will. 

Bleeding  to  climb  to  God,  while  He 
Serenely  smiled,  unnoting  me. 

Then  came  a  certain  time  when  I 
Loosened  my  hold  and  fell  thereby. 

Down  to  the  lowest  step  my  fall 
As  though  I  had  not  climbed  at  all. 

And  while  I  lay  despairing  there, 
Listen,  a  footfall  on  the  stair! 

In  the  same  path  where  I,  dismayed, 
Faltered  and  fell  and  lay  afraid. 

And  lo!  when  hope  had  ceased  to  be, 
My  God  came  down  the  stairs  to  me. 


80 


THE  UNFORGIFEN 

NEVER  for  me  shall  your  lamp  be  lighted, 
Never  for  me  shall  your  door  stand  wide, 
Though  the  ghost  may  come  when  the  man  has 
died 

To  keep  the  oath  that  his  live  lips  plighted. 

Though  a  thousand  lights  on  the  way  be  sighted, 
Dark  and  unhoused  one  heart  must  bide; 

Never  for  me  shall  your  lamp  be  lighted, 
Never  for  me  shall  your  door  stand  wide. 

I  pay  the  price  of  a  wrong  unrighted  — 
I  am  free  of  the  world  from  tide  to  tide, 
But  I  never  may  kneel  by  one  love's  side, 

Penitent,  heartsick  for  all  I  slighted. 

Never  for  me  shall  your  door  stand  wide, 

Never  for  me  shall  your  lamp  be  lighted. 


81 


THE  POET 

FIRE  he  put  upon  his  lips, 

In  his  heart  a  blade, 
'  Thus,"  quoth  Allah  to  his  Saints, 

"  Are  my  poets  made." 

"  Yet  what  use,"  the  Maker  sighed 

To  his  angels  near; 
"  Since  I  may  not  give  the  world 

Ears  that  it  may  hear." 


82 


A  PRISONER 

HIS  youth  was  like  that  mariner  of  old, 

Keen  with  the  daring  that  makes  dreams  come  true, 
Who  steered  a  course  courageous  to  those  new, 

Strange  lands  that  ever  beckoned  to  the  bold; 

To  whom  adventure  was  a  cup  of  gold 

From  which  the  valiant,  thirsting  spirit  drew 
That  wine  of  singing  life,  the  old  gods'  brew, 

To  make  their  heroes  glad  with  strength  untold. 

This  was  his  youth  triumphant.     See  to-day 

How  life  hath  thrust  him  crippled  'neath  her  bars 
Of  ceaseless  toil  and  sordid  hopes  and  gains  — 

A  prisoner  of  Fate  who  needs  must  stay 

With  dulled  eyes  turned  forever  from  the  stars, 
A  bound  Columbus  weighed  with  many  chains. 


83 


BARRIERS 

NOW  who  art  thou,  between  me  and  my  Life, 

My  Life  that  beckons  me? 
"  I  am  thy  Heritage.     Oh,  young  heart  rife 
With  hope  and  dreams  and  daring,  let  these  be 
Silent  forever.     I,  who  may  not  tire, 
With  old  arms  bar  the  way  to  thy  desire." 

Now  who  art  thou  between  me  and  my  Life, 

My  Life  that  calls,  that  calls? 
"  I  am  thy  Duty.     Far  from  mirth  or  strife, 
A  withered  beldam  shut  within  dull  walls, 
I  ask  that  service  thou  shalt  not  deny 
And  my  least  plaints  are  thongs  to  hold  thee  by." 

Now  who  art  thou  between  me  and  my  Life, 

My  Life  that  cries  for  me? 
"  I  am  thy  Love.     In  thy  hand  rests  the  knife 
That  slays  and  sets  thee  free. 

Mine  are  these  feeble  fingers  at  thy  heart  — 
Strike  if  thou  hast  the  courage,  and  depart." 


84 


THE  DEATH  OF  HELOISE 

SURELY  your  life  draws  hourly  near  to  mine; 
But  yet  a  little  and  my  hands  shall  lie 
Close  in  your  own  the  while  earth  mistily 

Fades  like  a  cloud  against  the  sunset  line. 

Have  we  not  waited,  bravely  desolate, 
Telling  our  rosaries  of  patient  tears 
Climbing  these  endless  stairs  of  barren  years 

Niched  by  those  pallid  priests  who  bade  us  wait? 

Have  we  not  toiled  each  to  his  separate  height? 
Surely  our  paths  approach,  and  suddenly 
One  space  shall  hold  us  both,  and  there  shall  be 

A  sound  of  singing  from  the  shattered  night, 

And  full  against  the  dawn,  God's  saints,  aghast, 
Shall  watch  us  cling,  and  laugh  and  sob,  "  At  last !  " 


85 


THE  LOST  WINGS 

"  KNOW  you  where  it  was  I  lost  my  wings?  " 

"  Oh,  poet,  at  the  Mart  of  Sordid  Things 

Where  the  merchants  strive  and  barter  all  day  long, 
Where  the  clamour  of  the  huckster  drowned  your  song. 

Oh,  poet,  at  the  Mart  of  Sordid  Things." 

"  Know  you  where  it  was  I  lost  my  wings?  " 
"  Oh,  poet,  at  the  House  of  Pleasing  Things  — 
At  the  place  of  noisy  laughter,  where  the  mirth 
Of  wine  and  feasting  dragged  your  song  to  earth. 
Oh,  poet,  at  the  House  of  Pleasing  Things." 

"  Know  you  where  it  was  I  lost  my  wings?  " 
"  Oh,  poet,  at  the  Place  of  Trifling  Things  — 
The  little  scorn,  the  spite,  the  lesser  love, 
These  maimed  your  song  and  killed  the  sweets  thereof. 
Oh,  poet,  at  the  Place  of  Trifling  Things." 

"  Where  then  shall  I  find  my  wings  again  ?  " 

"  Oh,  poet,  in  the  Prison  House  of  Pain  — 

From  the  silence,  from  the  anguish,  from  the  night 
Shall  the  sudden  sound  of  singing  thrill  to  flight. 

Oh,  poet,  in  the  Prison  House  of  Pain." 


86 


THE  CHILDREN 

MOTHER  of  many  children  I  —  sprung  of  my  heart  and 

my  brain  — 
And  some  have  been  born  in  gladness  and  some  have  been 

born   in  pain ; 

But  one  has  gone  singing  from  out  my  door 
To  never  come  back  again. 

Content  and  Ease  and  Comfort  —  they  abide  with  me  day 
by  day; 

They  smooth  my  couch  and  place  my  chair  as  dutiful  chil 
dren  may, 
And  Success  and  Power,  my  strong-limbed  sons, 

Stand  ever  to  clear  my  way. 

And  these  be  the  prudent  children,  the  careful  children  and 

wise ; 
There  was  one  and  only  one  with  a  reckless  dream  in  his 

eyes. 

He  who  was  one  with  the  wind  o'  the  dawn 
And  kin  to  the  wood  and  the  skies. 

Faithful  and  fond  are  my  children,  and  they  tend  me  well, 

in  sooth; 
Success  and  Content  and  Power,  good  proof  is  mine  of  their 

truth, 

But  the  name  of  him  that  I  lost  was  Joy, 
My  first-born  Joy  of  Youth. 

87 


THE  CHILDREN 

Well  do  my  children  guard  me,  jealous  of  this  their  right; 
Carefully,  soberly,  ever  by  daylight  and  candle-light, 

But  oh,  for  my  prodigal  Joy  of  Youth 
Somewhere  out  in  the  night! 


THE  LITTLE  CHRISTIAN 

HE  trembled  in  the  morning, 

At  noon  he  was  afraid, 
And  heavy  on  his  heart  at  night 

The  hand  of  fear  was  laid. 

A  presence  walked  beside  him 
Of  horror  and  of  fright  — 

A  shadow  in  the  sunshine, 
A  menace  in  the  night. 

And  this  that  dragged  his  childhood, 
This  thing  of  scourge  and  rod, 

They  gave  him  as  a  priceless  gift 
And  bade  him  call  it  God. 

They  made  for  him  a  fear  that  killed 
The  child-joy  in  his  breast; 

They  made  for  him  a  shape  of  dread 
And  bade  him  love  it  best. 

O  Mild,  O  Just,  O  Merciful! 

What  then  shall  be  their  shame  — 
These  souls  who  teach  a  little  child 

To  shudder  at  Thy  name! 


89 


THE  VICTORS 

GOD  gives  the  battle  to  the  strong  — 

What  were  His  justice  otherwise? 
The  valiant  heart,  the  equal  brain, 
The  fortitude  that  mocks  at  pain, 

On  these  the  light  victorious  lies. 
May  I  not  speak  these  things  —  may  I  not  know 
Who  hid  my  face  and  cowered  from  the  foe? 

God  gives  the  battle  to  the  strong  — 
His  heroes  armoured  with  their  might, 

To  those  undaunted  souls  who  fling 

Light  laughter  to  sore  suffering 

And  dare  to  stand,  resist  and  smite. 

Do  I  not  know  who  shrank  and  fell  dismayed, 

Anxious  and  feeble-hearted  and  afraid? 

God  gives  the  battle  to  the  strong  — 

Amen !     Amen !     And  ever  thus 
They  jubilant  sweep  on  to  be 
Crowned  and  enrobed  with  victory  — 

Strong  hearts  with  courage  glorious. 
May  not  a  coward  know  who,  grovelling,  hears 
Their  distant  song  of  triumph  in  his  ears? 


A  MORNING 

THE  glad,  mad  wind  went  singing  by, 
The  white  clouds  drove  athwart  the  blue, 

Bold  beauty  of  the  morning  sky 

And  all  the  world  was  sun  and  dew, 

And  sweet,  cold  air  with  sudden  glints  of  gold 

Like  spilled  stars  glowing  in  the  cedars'  hold. 

I  laughed  for  very  joy  of  life, 

Oh,  thrilling  veins,  oh,  happy  heart, 

Of  this  glad  world  with  beauty  rife, 
Exult  that  we  too  are  a  part; 

Rejoice!  Rejoice!  that  miracle  of  birth 

Gave  us  this  golden  heritage  of  earth. 

Oh,  bold,  blue  sky,  oh,  keen,  glad  wind, 

I  wonder  me  if  this  may  be, 
That  some  day,  leaving  life  behind, 

Our  eyes  shall  view  new  land,  new  sea 
So  exquisite  that,  lo,  with  thrilling  breath, 
We  shall  laugh  loud  for  very  joy  of  death. 


APRIL 

SOMETHING  tapped  at  my  window-pane, 
Someone  called  me  without  my  door, 

Someone  laughed  like  the  tinkle  o'  rain, 
The  robin  echoed  it  o'er  and  o'er. 

I  threw  the  door  and  the  window  wide; 

Sun  and  the  touch  of  the  breeze  and  then  — 
"  Oh,  were  you  expecting  me,  dear?  "  she  cried, 

And  here  was  April  come  back  again. 


THE  PIPER 

LOUD  he  piped  for  them  to  dance  — 
Oh,  the  gay  retreat,  advance, 

Like  surging  waves  that  lean  and  lift 
To  know  the  red  star's  glance! 

And  their  bare  brown  feet's  refrain 

Was  like  patter  of  the  rain 

That  thrills  in  May  time  through  the  green 

Where  cloistered  birds  are  fain. 

Gay  the  piper  played  the  while  grinned  he  craftily, 

"  Oh,  rare  and  ripe  for  this  I  pipe,  pay  ye  must''  quoth  he. 

Oh,  the  dancers'  eyes  were  bright 
As  a  flame  in  middle  night, 

For  shrill  he  piped  the  lure  of  life, 
The  daring  of  delight. 

And  they  tripped  it  to  and  fro 

As  the  light-foot  fairies  go 

That  circle  on  the  greensward 

When  a  crescent  moon  dips  low. 

Fast  the  piper  played  the  while  grinned  he  craftily, 

"  For  this  my  tune  or  late  or  soon,  pay  ye  must,"  quoth  he. 

Oh,  the  piper's  notes  were  sweet 
As  a  rose  in  noontide  heat, 

And  Love  was  like  the  pulse  of  flame 
That  through  his  measure  beat, 


93 


THE  PIPER 

Oh,  of  love  his  pipings  were 
Till  the  air  was  all  astir 

With  fragrance  of  his  music 
Spilled  as  spikenard  and  as  myrrh. 

Soft  the  piper  piped  the  while  grinned  he  craftily, 
"For  this  my  best  and  loveliest  pay  ye  must''  quoth  he. 

But  what  time  the  twilight  died 
Oh,  he  flung  his  pipes  aside, 

And  "Sweethearts,  now  comes  reckoning!" 
Grim  Time  the  piper  cried. 

"  Give  me  guerdon  for  my  pains, 

Give  me  payment  for  my  strains, 
Now  yield  me   for  your  pleasuring 

The  price  my  piping  gains." 

"Nay,  but  wherewith  may  we  pay?"     Grinned  he  craftily, 
"  Youth  of  you  and  truth  of  you  and  joy  of  you/'  quoth  he. 

Oh,  the  shrinking  forms  and  bent, 
Oh,  the  weary  feet  that  went 

Through  dust  of  all  regretting 
From  the  place  of  merriment! 

And  again  the  piper  blew 

For  another  madder  crew 
In  silver  of  the  moonlight 

And  the  shimmer  of  the  dew. 

Gay  the  piper  played  the  while  grinned  he  craftily, 
r(  Yea,   good   sooth,   I   pipe   for   youth    and   take    my   pay," 
quoth   he. 

94 


THE  LIGHTS  OF  CROYDON 

OH,    the   lights   of   Croydon    town    gleaming    through   the 

mist  — 
On  the  morn  he  sailed  away  both  my  eyes  he  kissed ; 

"  Look   ye   well,    blue    eyes    and    sweet,    look    ye   well," 

quoth  he, 
"  Watch  ye   from  the  dunes  o'   sand  when   the  night 

comes  down ; 
When  the  lights  o'  Croydon  rise  like  ship-lights  on  the 

sea 

It's  I'll  be  sailing  back  to  you,  oh,  back  from  Croydon 
town." 

Oh,    the    lights   of    Croydon    town  —  high   they   shine    and 

bright, 

Like  a  slender  crescent  moon  curving  through  the  night; 
One  by  one  they  fade  away  when  the  stars  are  dead, 
When  the  lean  waves  leap  to  tell  names  of  men  they 

drown. 
"  Watch  ye  well,  blue  eyes  and  sweet,"  those  the  words 

he   said  — 

Weary  watch  and  long  they've  kept,  oh,  lights  of  Croy 
don  town. 

Oh,   the   lights   of   Croydon   town  —  yearning  through   the 

nights, 

Bird-like  has  the  heart  of  me  beat  against  your  lights. 
Dim  the  eyes  that  felt  his  kiss,  thin  the  hair  and  gray, 

Bent  the  form  that  never  wore  white  o'  wedding  gown. 
"  Watch   ye    well,    sweet   eyes,"    quoth   he    the    morn   he 

sailed  away, 

Who  ne'er  came  sailing  back  again,  oh,  lights  of  Croy 
don  town. 

95 


AT  THE  DATS  END 

ALL  day  among  the  anxious  crowd  I  pressed, 
All  day  I  strove  and  bartered  with  the  best, 
All  day  my  feet  were  busy  in  the  mart  — 
Have  I  not  earned  my  little  hour  of  rest? 

Oh,  my  beloved,  the  shelter  of  your  heart! 
Oh,  my  beloved,  the  quiet  of  your  breast! 

Ere  the  morn  broke  Toil  called  us  to  arise; 
When  the  noon  fell  she  drove  us  tyrant-wise; 

Slow  in  the  twilight  died  her  loud  alarms 

Fain  would  I  turn  me  to  where  silence  lies. 

Oh,  my  beloved,  the  comfort  of  your  arms! 
Oh,  my  beloved,  the  healing  of  your  eyes! 

As  footworn  travellers  a  little  space 
Kneel  in  the  shadow  of  some  holy  place, 

Too  wearied  to  lament  or  to  rejoice, 
So  in  your  love  receive  me  of  your  grace. 

Oh,  my  beloved,  the  soothing  of  your  voice! 
Oh,  my  beloved,  the  pity  of  your  face! 


THE  FORTUNATE 

PITY  me  not  that  I,  who  am  grown  old, 
Fold  empty  hands  no  other's  hands  may  hold, 
And  sit  in  silence  in  a  silent  place 

With  never  hope  to-morrow  may  redeem, 
Nor  joy  of  yesterdays  upon  my  face. 

Pity  me  not  —  for  I  have  had  my  dream. 

Give  me  no  tears  that  I,  who  much  desired. 
Failed  those  far  heights  to  which  my  life  aspired  ; 
Where  joy  to  seek  and  ecstasy  to  gain 

My  one  star  lured  and  drew  me  to  its  beam. 
Oh,  you  who  saw  the  failure  and  the  pain, 
Pity  me  not  —  for  I  have  had  my  dream. 

Yea,  I,  whose  life  is  chained  to  dragging  days, 
Have  sped   my  heart  through  sweet  and  wondrous 

ways ; 

In  far,  fair  lands  beyond  the  day  and  night, 
On  strange,  still  seas  where  white  moons  drift 

and  gleam, 

I  —  I  have  kissed  the  lips  of  my  delight. 
Pity  me  not  —  for  I  have  had  my  dream. 

Oh,  you  with  hope  fulfilled,  that  realised 

Seems  but  a  little  triumph  and  unprized ; 

For  me  a  joy  more  exquisite  and  fine 

Though  life  hath  led  me  by  a  barren  stream, 
Though  my  desire  hath  been  never  mine, 
Pity  me  not  —  for  I  have  had  my  dream. 

97 


FIRST  LOVE 

"  WHY  do  you  look  from  the  window  so, 

Little  Felicia,  daughter  of  mine? 
There  still  is  the  long  white  seam  to  sew 

And  the  white  lambs'  wool  to  spin." 
"  Oh,  mother,  below  here  in  the  snow 

Stands  a  little  lad  with  a  mouth  like  wine  — 
A  little  lad  with  a  carven  bow 

And  he  makes  as  though  he  would  enter  in, 
Mother  of  mine." 

"  Nay  —  there  is  no  one  there  at  all, 

Little  Felicia,  my  idle  one; 
Naught  I  see  but  the  white  snow's  fall 

And  thy  task  is  still  the  same." 
"  Oh,  mother,  harken,  I  hear  him  call, 

'  Pray,  sweetheart,  is  the  door  undone  ? 
Let  me  in  who  am  weak  and  small.' 

May  I  bid  him  enter  in  Pity's  name, 
Mother  of  mine?  " 

"  Nothing  I  hear  and  naught  I  see, 

Little  Felicia,  who  works  so  ill; 
And  there's  much  to  do  ere  darkness  be  — 

Come,   daughter,   thy  task  begin." 
But  little  Felicia  blushingly 

Turned  away  from  the  window-sill; 
"  Oh,  mother,  I  spake  no  word,"  quoth  she, 

"  But  I  fear  —  I  fear  he  hath  entered  in, 
Mother  of  mine." 

98 


THE  LOSER 

I  HAVE  gambled  away  my  life  — 
Small  ventures  on  that  and  this, 

A  bit  of  youth  for  a  useless  truth, 
A  trifle  of  heart  for  a  kiss. 

Yea,  with  pitiful  stakes  and  small 

In  a  crafty  game  played  I ; 
With  counters  spanned  in  a  careful  hand 

When  the  losses  were  over  high. 

I  have  gambled  away  my  life  — 

A  little  now7  and  again ; 
Oh,  bit  by  bit  have  I  wasted  it 

In  the  fashion  of  weakling  men. 

I  have  stayed  in  a  coward's  game 
With  a  sickening  fear  of  loss; 

Afraid  to  play  for  the  joy  that  lay 
In  the  fall  of  the  reckless  toss. 

I  have  gambled  away  my  life 

In  a  puny,  cautious  game, 
But  now,  alack,  were  my  treasure  back 

I  would  never  play  it  the  same. 

I  would  stake  my  all  on  the  throw  — 
Mind,  soul,  yea,  all  that  is  I  — 

And  in  fierce  content  and  merriment 
Had  waited  to  live  or  die. 


99 


THE  LOSER 

To  live  or  die  like  a  man 

Heart  glad  of  the  chance  he  had, 

Who  shook  with  Fate  for  his  table  mate 
In  a  glorious  bout  and  mad. 

In  a  moment  to  end  it  so  — 
Die  beggar  or  live  a  king  — 

And  pay  the  score  be  it  less  or  more 
In  the  hour  of  the  reckoning. 

And  to  die,  if  die  I  must, 

With  a  heart  unswerved,  and  then 
With  face  to  the  sod  give  thanks  to  God 

That  I  played  like  a  man  with  men. 


TOO 


THE  WINDOW 

THIS  is  the  window  where  one  day 

I  watched  him  as  he  came, 
When  all  the  world  was  white  with  May 

And  vibrant  with  his  name. 

His  eyes  to  mine,  my  eyes  to  his  — 

Oh,  lad,  how  glad  were  we 
What  time  I  leaned  to  catch  the  kiss 

Your  fingers  tossed  to  me! 

This  is  the  window  where  one  day 

I  crouched  to  see  him  go, 
When  all  the  world  with  wrath  was  gray 

And  desolate  with  snow. 

Oh,  this  the  glass  where  prophet-wise 

My  fate  I  needs  must  spell; 
Through  this  I  looked  on  Paradise, 

Through  this  I  looked  on  Hell. 


101 


TR4VESTY 

SURELY  I  should  have  seen  that  flower  face, 
Say,  in  an  English  lane  when  Spring  was  new 
And  high,  white  clouds  were  drifting  in  the  blue, 

And  a  glad  lark  made  music  in  the  place; 

Where  all  about  you  was  no  thing  more  base 
Than  the  pink  hawthorn  heavy  with  its  dew, 
And  where  my  man's  eyes  at  the  sight  of  you 

Should  drop,  unworthy  of  such  maiden  grace. 

Oh,  child,  it  should  be  thus,  and  yet  to-night 
Here  in  the  city's  red  iniquities 

Strange  I  should,  find  you  in  this  garish  light 
With  this  hard  mocking  in  your  tired  eyes 

And  curled,  red  lips  set  jesting  at  the  sight 
Of  a  man's  wrath  at  Life's  mad  comedies. 


102 


THE  LITTLE  SISTER 

WHEN  the  days  are  dreariest, 

When  the  nights  are  long, 
Sudden  on  the  creaking  stair 

Sounds  her  careless  song; 
Sudden  on  the  darkened  sill 

Falls  a  footstep  free 
And  the  Little  Sister  comes 

Back  again  to  me. 

Blithe  and  gay  and  jubilant, 

All  her  words  a  jest, 
Laughter  on  her  merry  lips, 

Youth  upon  her  breast, 
Happy  dreams  within  her  eyes 

Daring  days  to  be, 
So  the  Little  Sister  comes 

Back  again  to  me. 

And  she  hath  the  eyes  I  had 

When  the  world  was  new, 
And  she  hath  the  heart  I  had 

When  the  world  was  true; 
And  my  very  name  she  bears  — 

Ah,  so  close  our  tie!  — 
Just  the  Little  Sister  now 

Who  one  day  was  I. 


103 


THE  LITTLE  SISTER 

Strange  that  she  who  knew  no  tears 

So  my  tears  should  wake; 
Strange  her  very  happiness 

My  own  heart  should  break. 
Oh,  so  other  than  myself, 

Two,  yet  one  are  we, 
Little  Sister  of  my  age 

Comes  she  back  to  me. 

Not  a  wistful  ghost  she  comes  — 

Better  so,  perchance  — 
But  with  lips  too  fain  to  sing, 

Feet  too  fain  to  dance. 
And  I  turn  my  eyes  from  her 

(Eyes  she  must  not  see) 
When  the  Little  Sister  comes 

Back  again  to  me. 


104 


THE  GOD  OF  CLAY 

I  WATCH  each  day  my  singing  sisters  go 
Lightfooted  to  the  temple  on  the  height, 

Bearing  fair  gifts,  trailed  blooms  of  rose  and  snow 
To  please  the  golden  gods  of  their  delight. 

The  golden  gods  that,  in  their  lofty  place, 
Stand  in  their  flawless  might  for  all  to  see, 

Bearing  each  one  upon  his  perfect  face 
The  pride  of  his  infallibility. 

And  ever  on  their  way  and  singing  thus 
They  pause  sometimes  to  urge  me  or  deride, 

"  Oh  sister,  wilt  thou  never  come  with  us 
To  worship  where  the  gods  of  gold  abide  ?  " 

They  never  know  that  ere  they  pass  the  gates 
Of  bronze  and  ivory,  I  take  my  way 

To  where,  in  his  unlighted  darkness,  waits 
My  desecrated,  shattered  god  of  clay. 

Before  their  golden  gods  my  sisters  cast 

Their  fleeting  blooms,  the  gladness  of  their  years; 

I  bear  to  my  degraded  god  this  last 

Great  gift  of  silence  and  of  awful  tears. 


105 


WHEN  WOFFINGTON  SOLD  ^ATER-CRESS 

WHEN  Woffington  sold  water-cress, 
Crying  her  wareings  up  and  down 
The  narrow  streets  of  Dublin  town, 

I  wonder  did  no  passer  guess 

The  spirit  in  the  dingy  dress, 

The  heart  beneath  the  tattered  gown? 

Did  not  the  eyes'  audacious  brown 
Speak  Harry  Wildair's  recklessness  — 

Whispered  no  prescience  of  renown  — 
When  Woffington  sold  water-cress? 

Nay,  blind  we  are  as  in  those  days 
The  folk  of  Dublin  who  went  by; 
Perchance,  this  moment  you  and  I 
Have  passed  upon  our  several  ways 
The  little  lass  whom  future  praise 
Shall  hail  as  some  divinity. 

To-morrow  —  and  we  swell  the  cry  — 
To-day  —  wre  pass,  nor  pause  nor  gaze ; 

They  stayed  you,  Peggy,  but  to  buy, 
And  blind  we  are  as  in  those  days. 

Child,  is  it  you  will  wear  the  bays, 
You  who  will  ivin  the  world's  caress? 

Nay,  blind  we  are  as  in  those  days 
When  Woffington  sold  water-cress. 


106 


'TONIO 

I  PLAYED  all  day  —  the  other  children  worked 
Hard  in  the  vineyard,  and  my  father  said, 
"  Hungry  to-night  shall  'Tonio  go  to  bed!  " 

And  scolded.     Where  I  hid  I  heard  his  words 
And  laughed  and  ran;  the  leaves  were  gold  and  red 
And   the  wind  whirled   them  through  the  woods 
like  birds. 

All  day  I  played  —  the  sun  and  wind  and  I; 
Between  the  trees  and  up  and  down  the  hill; 
And  the  noon  came  and  it  was  still,  so  still; 

And  I  stretched  out  full-length  upon  the  grass 
And  watched  the  clouds  like  white  sails  reach  and 

fill 
And  catch  the  sun  for  freight,  and  drift  and  pass. 

I  played  all  day.     Oh,  it  was  good  to  think 

How  hard  my  brothers  worked  while  I  went  free. 
"  Hungry  to-night  goes  'Tonio,"  so  said  he ; 

But  I  danced  on  the  hill-top  with  the  moon  — 
A  great  red  moon  that  came  up  merrily 

And  called  the  wind  to  pipe  us  both  a  tune. 

"  Hungry  to-night  shall  'Tonio  go  to  bed !  " 
Ah  well,  to-morrow  I  shall  work  and  eat 
And  go  to  bed  with  aching  hands  and  feet, 

And  sleep  as  oxen  sleep  that  plow  all  day; 
To-night  I  shall  sleep  hungry  but  dream  sweet  — 

I  wish  that  I  could  always  starve  and  play. 

107 


THE  QUEEN'S  SONG 

THIS  is  the  song  the  King  Cophetua 

Heard  'neath  her  casement,  as  the  morning  broke 
And  the  white  dawn  came  rolling  in  like  smoke 

From  altars  where  the  priestly  sun  hath  sway. 

These  are  the  words  the  King  Cophetua 

Heard  all  his  life  time  sound  through  jest  and  song, 
Thrill  through  his  dreaming  when  the  nights  were 
long, 

And  make  a  mirthless  melody  of  day. 

The  song  he  held  as  some  red  wound  that  stirs 
Forever  in  the  torn  breast  where  it  lies, 
That  tortured  life  and  made,  at  last,  the  eyes 

Of  very  death  seem  lovelier  than  hers. 

"  Soft  is  the  King's  white  hand  as  down, 

Feeble  his  arms  as  silken  thong; 
Oh,  but  the  gypsy's  face  was  brown, 

The  gypsy's  arms  were  strong! 

"His  eyes  were  bluer  than  the  day, 

Purple  with  shadows  as  the  night; 
The  open  earth  was  ours  to  stray  — 

The  highways  of  delight. 

"  We  were  the  comrades  of  the  sun, 

Brother  and  sister  of  the  rain; 
And  high,  white  moon  when  day  was  done 

Claimed  us  as  mates  again. 
108 


THE  QUEEN'S  SONG 

11  My  hair  the  wayside  rose  might  bind, 
Its  thorn  my  tattered  gown  could  hold; 

We  were  the  playmates  of  the  wind, 
The  comrades  of  the  wold. 

"  Fair  feasts  he  gained  from  brook  and  tree  - 
He  fed  my  heart  a  food  divine; 

The  words  of  him  were  bread  to  me, 
His  kisses  were  as  wine. 

"  In  the  gold  garden  of  the  sun 
All  day  our  joy  went  singing  thus, 

And  night  by  night  the  witch  moon  spun 
Her  white  tent  over  us. 

"  A  beggar  lass  and  lover  bold, 

Ragged  our  raiment  as  was  meet, 
But  our  love  walked  in  cloth  of  gold 

And  golden  shod  his  feet. 

****** 
"Why  should  a  king's  eyes  know  me  fair? 

Why  should  a  king's  eyes  find  me  good? 
Why  should  a  king's  will  bid  me  bear 

Weight  of  his  kinglihood? 

"  Across  the  crowd  my  eyes  caught  his, 
Across  the  crowd  he  came  to  me, 

Strange  coloured  as  a  great  wave  is, 
Resistless  as  the  sea. 

109 


THE  QUEEN'S  SONG 

11  He  raised  my  face  to  meet  his  gaze, 

His  fingers  lingered  in  my  hair; 
His  smile  beat  down  my  hot  amaze, 

And    left   white    terror   there. 

"  The  gypsy's  hand  fell  cold  from  mine 

What  time  the  King's  hand  touched  my  own; 

Slow-stepped  along  the  shouting  line, 
He  drew  me  to  the  throne. 

"  They  brought  me  royal  robes  to  wear, 
They  gave  me  curious  food  and  sweet; 

They  bound  red  jewels  in  my  hair, 
White  samite  on  my  feet. 

"  Beggar  and  King  we  knelt  to  priest  — 
The  censers  swung,  the  heralds  cried ; 

High-throned  they  served  us  at  the  feast  — 
A  Queen  at  a  King's  side. 

"  Strange  that  a  great  Queen  needs  must  keep 

A  beggar's  heart  within  her  breast; 
Strange,  when  a  Queen  lies  down  to  sleep, 

A  beggar's  dreams  mock  rest. 

"  Strange  that  a  great  Queen's  thought  must  creep 

Down  dusty  highways  of  old  years  ; 
Strange  that  a  Queen's  cold  eyes  should  weep 

A  beggar's  burning  tears. 

no 


THE  QUEEN'S  SONG 

"I  —  only  I  —  the  truth  may  know, 
Beggar  and  bound,  who  once  had  been 

Free  of  the  wind  and  sun  and  snow, 
Of  very  love  the  Queen. 

"  What  though  I  go  in  cloth  of  gold, 

What  though  my  bread  is  fine  and  sweet, 

When  Love  stands  starving  in  the  cold, 
With  naked  hands  and  feet! 

"  Soft  the  King's  eyes  and  dull  of  mien, 

Cold  the  King's  face  as  one  long  dead. 
Oh,  but  the  gypsy's  eyes  were  keen, 

The  gypsy's  lips  were  red! 

****** 
"  We  were  the  comrades  of  the  air, 

Brother  and  sister  to  the  wood. 
Why  should  a  King's  eyes  know  me  fair, 

A  King's  eyes  find  me  good  ?  " 

This  is  the  song  the  King  Cophetua 

Heard  'neath  her  casement  as  the  morning  broke. 


in 


THE  LOST  HERITAGE 

THE  close  companionship  of  earth, 

Its  tenderness  and  might, 
These  things  were  ours  by  blood  and  birth, 

By  heritage  and  right. 

We  were  born  brothers  to  the  wood 
And  in  our  veins  there  ran 

That  fire  of  joy  and  hardihood 
That  is  the  blood  of  Pan. 

The  language  of  the  leaves  was  ours 

And  ours  the  kindred  tie 
That  told  us  in  the  lightless  hours 

What  strange,  wild  mate  went  by. 

Yet,  brothers  of  our  heritage, 
What  is  there  left  to-day? 

We  sold  it  for  a  petty  wage, 
For  servitude  and  pay. 

Stone  upon  stone  our  cities  grow 
Mask-like  on  earth's  shamed  face; 

We  cause  our  kindred's  overthrow 
To  build  our  hinds  a  place. 

Crowded  and  cringing  and  content 
We  cry  from  mart  and  door, 

"  Behold  the  pottage  excellent 
We  sold  our  birthright  for!  " 


112 


THE  LOST  HERITAGE 

We  have  forgotten  day  by  day 

That  once  we  walked  elate, 
How  all  majestic  was  our  sway, 

How  mighty  our  estate. 

This  be  our  shame  —  to  doubt  their  worth 

Who  one  day  understood 
The  close  companionship  of  earth, 

The  high  hills'  brotherhood. 


THE  DAY'S  END 

SURELY  our  time  of  love  was  as  a  day  — 

Faint  dawn-break  and  the  noon's  fierce  flush  of  light, 

And  twilight,  like  a  witch-bloom,  strange  and  gray, 
Unfolding  to  the  night. 

Faint  dawn-break  —  how  we  watched  it,  you  and  I  ; 

First  through  the  mist  a  soaring  bird-note  sprung, 
A  colour  caught  in  crimson  on  the  sky, 

And  our  hands  clasped  and  clung. 

And  there  was  sudden  dawning  in  your  eyes  — 
A  prescience  of  the  wonders  that  would  be 

When  the  veiled  heart  of  you  should  thrill  and  rise 
Of  all  disguise  made  free. 

The  hour  of  noon  —  ah,  sweet,  how  swift  it  came ! 

The  full  sun  and  the  silence,  when  we  two 
Saw  Love  revealed  and  through  his  eyes  of  flame 

Looked,  understood  —  and  knew. 

In  the  white  light,  the  shadowless  vast  space, 
What  could  be  held  or  hidden,  each  from  each? 

Oh,  as  my  lips  were  still  upon  your  face, 
Our  souls  were  loud  with  speech. 

*  *  *  *  # 

How  long  ago  it  was  —  since  shadow-wise 

Spread  the  slow  twilight  through  the  darkling  land. 

And  weariness  is  heavy  in  your  eyes 
And  in  your  listless  hand. 
114 


THE  DATS  END 

And  sombre  with  the  warning  of  the  night 
The  ragged  cloud  edge  drags  upon  the  hill; 

And  in  your  voice  there  wakes  a  note  of  fright 
And  wan  your  face  and  chill. 

Love  and  day  die,  yet  have  we  known  their  best. 

Once  more  your  lips  —  nay,  look  and  laugh  and  lean ; 
See  where  the  one  rift  burns  across  the  West 

To  show  that  day  has  been. 


THE  WANDERLUST 

OH,  the  voice  came  again  when  the  fields  were  bare  for 

sowing  — 

A-whispering,  a-whispering,  it  never  gave  me  rest, 
"  Oh,  lad,  the  world  is  white  with  Spring,  oh,  lad,  be  up 

and  going  — 

Down  the  wide  road,  the  free  road  that  stretches  to  the 
West." 

I  looked  a-down  the  wide  road  and  I  was  fain  to  go; 

I  looked  into  a  stranger's  eyes  and  I  was  fain  to  stay; 
But  still  the  whisper  burned  like  flame  that  flickers  to  and 

fro, 

"  There's  much  to  see  and  much  to  find,  away,  my  lad, 
away!  " 

Oh,  the  voice  came  again  when  the  grain  was  in  the  grow 
ing — 

A-crying  and  a-crying,  it  followed  where  I  went, 
"  Oh,  lad,  the  Summer  trails  are  clear,  oh,  lad,  be  up  and 

going  — 
Through  the  far  way,  the  green  way,  the  way  of  all  con- 


I  looked  upon  the  far  trail  and  I  was  fain  to  go; 

I   looked  within   my  sweetheart's  eyes  and   fain   to  stay 

was  I ; 
But  still  the  voice  kept  pace  with  me  a-down  the  blossomed 

row, 

"  There's  much  to  see  and  much  to  find,  oh,  lad,  before 
you  die." 

116 


THE  WANDERLUST 

Oh,  the  voice  comes  again  when  the  fields  are  ripe  for  mow 
ing — 

A-clamouring,  a-clamouring,  I  may  not  choose  but  heed, 
"  Oh,  lad,  the  keen  wind  fills  the  sails,  oh,  lad,  be  up  and 

going  — 

The  unplumbed  seas,  the  unfound  lands  are  waiting  on 
your  speed." 

I  look  across  the  wondrous  world  —  I  may  not  choose  but 

go; 
I  kiss  my  wife  upon  her  mouth  nor  make  her  prayers 

reply; 

Oh,  voice  that  is  the  soul  of  me,  I  follow  high  or  low  — 
There's  much  to  see  and  much  to  find  —  good-bye,  my 
sweet,  good-bye. 


117 


I  HEARD  A  VOICE 

I  HEARD  a  voice  in  the  darkness  singing 
(That  was  a  valiant  soul  I  knew) 

And  the  joy  of  his  song  was  a  wild  bird  winging 
Swift  to  his  mate  through  a  sky  of  blue. 

Myself  —  I  sang  when  the  dawn  was  flinging 

Wide  his  guerdon  of  fire  and  dew ; 
I  heard  a  voice  in  the  darkness  singing 

(That  was  a  valiant  soul  I  knew). 

And  his  song  was  of  love  and  all  its  bringing 
And  of  certain  day  when  the  night  was  through  ; 

I  raised  my  eyes  where  the  hope  was  springing 

And  I  think  in  His  Heaven  God  smiled  too. 

I  heard  a  voice  in  the  darkness  singing 
(That  was  a  valiant  soul  I  knew). 


118 


ON  TYBURN  HILL 

ON  Tyburn  Hill  on  hanging  day 
Cut-throat  and  thief  and  gallant  stay; 
Noble  and  dandy,  sober  cit, 
Mercer  and  draper,  fop  and  wit, 
And  chattering  belle  in  fine  array. 

My  Lady's  coach  obstructs  the  way  — 
Gilt  cupids  on  its  panels  flit  ; 
And  languishing  doth  Beauty  sit 
On  Tyburn  Hill. 

"  A  highwayman  is  hanged,"  they  say; 

My  Lady  smiles,  "  'Tis  like  a  play." 
"  Lud !  Lud !  A  proper  man  and  fit." 
"  'Tis  hoped  he'll  make  a  fight  of  it." 

These  be  the  passing  prayers  men  pray 
On  Tyburn  Hill. 


119 


MAY  FLOWERS 

MAY  flowers  on  the  city  street  — 

A  keen-faced   vendor  sells,   with   eyes 
Fitted  for  coarser  merchandise 

Than  these  pathetic  bits  of  sweet 
That  breathe  of  vague  simplicities. 

May  flowers  on  the  city  street  — 
Here  where  the  tide  of  traffic  roars 
Against  its  narrow,  crowded  shores 

Where  men  go  by  with  hurrying  feet 
And  barter  swings  its  thousand  doors. 

May  flowers  on  the  city  street  — 

Why,  'tis  as  though  the  young-eyed  Spring 
Herself  had  come  —  an  artless  thing, 

A  country  lass,  demure  and  neat  — 
To  smile  upon  us  wondering. 

May  flowers  on  the  city  street  — 
Pink  and  white  poetry  abloom 
Here  in  this  clamor,  crush  and  gloom  — 

A  home-thought  in  the  battle's  heat, 
A  love-song  in  a  sunless  room. 


120 


MAY  FLOWERS 

May  flowers  on  the  city  street  — 
For  one  poor  coin  behold  I  buy 
Springtime  and  youth  and  poetry, 

E'en  in  this  sordid  mart  unmeet 
So  many  miles  from  Arcady. 


121 


CONTRAST 

BECAUSE  mine  eyes  were  lifted  high 
They  lost  what  time  they  won ; 

I  might  have  loved  the  moon  if  I 
Had  never  seen  the  sun. 

Had  I  not  heard  the  crash  and  scream 

Of  great  waves  on  a  sea, 
The  prattle  of  a  brook  might  seem 

A  wondrous  threnody. 

I  may  not  tell  if  God  hath  blessed 

Or  banned  me  in  this  wise ; 
Because  one  day  I  knew  the  best 

No  lesser  thing  I  prize. 

Ah  well,  the  little  joys  go  by  — 

I  smile  remembering 
I  might  have  loved  the  clown  if  I 

Had  never  seen  the  king. 


123 


A  DREAM  OF  THESSALY 

OH,  Summer  that  my  sad  eyes  may  not  see, 

I  yearn  for  you  within  the  city  gate; 

Through  heat  and  dust  and  din,  I,  desolate, 

Long  for  your  miracles  of  bloom  and  tree, 

Your  soft,  slow  winds  and  wide  sea's  mystery. 

Ah  me,  to  be  a  pagan  girl  elate, 

Free-limbed,  loose-haired,  with  dreaming  eyes,  await, 

Deep  in  the  purple  woods  of  Thessaly, 

To  hear  a  rustle  through  the  river  weeds 

And  sudden  note  of  laughter,  shrill  and  gay, 

And,  through  the  rifts  of  sunshine,  look  on  this; 

The  great  god  Pan  with  hand  upon  the  reeds, 

Wet  lilies  in  his  long  hair's  disarray, 

And  lips  up-pursed  to  catch  a  naiad's  kiss. 


133 


THE  GOD-GHOST 

I  KNOW  that  Pan  is  dead,  yet  now 
Along  the  river's  darkling  edge 
I  saw  the  slender,  silver  sedge 

As  'neath  a  fleeting  footstep  bow; 

And  this  red  lily  from  its  stem 

Snapped  suddenly  and  broke  and  fell 
What  time  some  hand  invisible 

Stirred  through  the  myriad  blooms  of  them. 

And  there  I  saw  the  river  break 
In  gentle  ripples,  circling  wide 
As  though  some  long  dead  naiad  sighed 

Beneath  it  for  old  loving's  sake, 

And  fain  would  rise  again  and  greet 
Her  goat-hoofed  lover  as  he  came 
Beneath  the  clustered  trees,  aflame 

To  pipe  his  longing  at  her  feet; 

Where  black  against  the  rising  moon 

The  mad  Bacchante's  wine-splashed  crew 
Hailed  them  as  mates  of  theirs  and  drew 

Them  captive  by  the  wide  lagoon. 

I  know  that  Pan  is  dead  —  I  know 

In  what  strange  fashion  was  his  death, 
And  how  amazement  gripped  his  breath 

Who  fell  before  an  unknown  foe, 


124 


THE  GOD-GHOST 

What  time  across  the  trembling  green, 
Against  the  veiled  and  quaking  sun, 
Sounded  from  Calvary  that  one 

Torn  death-cry  of  the  Nazarene. 

I  know  that  Pan  is  dead  —  his  host 
Are  as  blown  leaves  the  winds  abhor ; 
Yet  who  shall  say  that  nevermore 

Walks  upon  earth  his  homeless  ghost? 

Where  else  were  place  for  him,  who  hath 
No  soul  to  whine  at  Heaven's  gate; 
No  soul  to  crush  beneath  the  weight 

Of  Lucifer's  exquisite  wrath? 

Goat-hoofed,  earth-smeared  he  may  not  climb 
Where  those  great  gods,  who  mocked  their  fall, 
Sit  in  a  silence  cynical 

Awaiting  their  appointed  time. 

Only  for  him  the  earth  —  the  earth 
That  was  his  mother  and  his  spouse ; 
Who  hailed  him  royal  in  her  house 

And  waited  on  his  love  and  mirth. 

Wherefore  he  comes  to  her  again 

In  the  green  silences  —  I  know ; 

To-night  I  watched  her  forests  glow 
And  felt  her  blissful  tears  of  rain. 

125 


THE  GOD-GHOST 

Behold,  great  Pan  is  here — for  hark! 
Not  that  the  river's  murmurings 
Or  moon-awakened   bird   that   flings 

A  note  of  gold  against  the  dark. 

Hark !  —  for  to-night  the  ghost  of  Pan 
Shrills  from  his  slender  river-rods 
The  mockery  that  is  a  god's, 

The  suffering  that  is  of  man. 

Man's  wailing  sense  of  impotence, 
The  protest  of  the  bruised  clods, 
Meet  with  the  note  that  shows  a  god's 

Contemptuous  indifference. 

*  *  *  * 

My  thoughts  are  tangled  in  the  strain. 

Not  mine  to  trace  their  wildered  thread  ; 

I  only  know  that  Pan  is  dead, 
I  only  know  he  lives  again. 

And  so  will  live  until  down  hurled 
Creation  crashes  from  its  course, 
And  some  malignant,  maddened  force 

Shrieks  as  it  views  what  was  a  world. 


126 


A  SONG  OF  KAMAL 


HE  who  is  desolate  may  cry 
His  sorrow  to  the  earth  and  sky. 

Who  has  lost  all  has  naught  to  fear; 
Haply,  the  gods  may  laugh  to  hear, 

Rejoicing  that  man's  discontent 
Should  flavour  their  grim  merriment. 

We  who  are  happy,  you  and  I, 
Must  laugh  low  and  walk  silently 

Lest  we  shall  taste  what  gall  may  be 
Wrapped  in  the  great  gods'  jealousy. 

Who,  envious  of  man's  delight, 

Lean  from  their  hills  to  strike  and  blight. 

Let  us  kiss  softly  and  laugh  low 
Lest  they  should  know. 


127 


THE  IRISH  HEART 
(To  S.  W.  P.) 


THE  DAUGHTER 

IT'S  not  myself  I'm  grieving  for,  it's  not  that  I'm  complain 
ing, 
(He's  a  good  man,  is  Michael,  and  I've  never  felt  his 

frown) 

But  there's  sorrow  beating  on  me  like  a  long  day's  raining 
For  the  little  wrinkled  face  of  her  I  left  in  Kerrydown. 

(It's  just  Herself  I'm  longing  for,  Herself  and  no  other  — 
Do  you  mind  the  morns  we  walked  to  mass  when  all  the 

fields  were  green  ? 
'Twas  I  that  pinned  your  kerchief,  oh,  me  mother,  mother, 

mother! 
The  wide  seas,  the  cruel  seas  and  half  the  world  between.) 

'Tis  the  man's  part  to  say  the  word,  the  wife's  to  up  and 

follow  — 
(It's  a  fair  land  we've  come  to  and  there's  plenty  here  for 

all) 
And   'tis   not   the   homesick   longing   that   lures   me   like   a 

swallow 

But  the  one  voice  across  the  world  that  draws  me  to  its 
call. 

(It's  just  Herself  I'm  longing  for,  Herself  and  no  other  — 
Do  you  mind  the  tales  you  told  me  when  the  turf  was 

blazing  bright? 
Me    head    upon    your    shoulder,    oh,    me    mother,    mother, 

mother  — 
The  broad  seas  between  us  and  yourself  alone  to-night!) 

131 


THE  DAUGHTER 

There's  decent  neighbours  all  about,  there's  coming  and 
there's  going; 

It's  kind  souls  will  be  about  me  when  the  little  one  is  here  ; 
But  it's  her  word  I'm  wanting,  her  comfort  I'd  be  knowing, 

And  her  blessing  on  the  two  of  us  to  drive  away  the  fear. 

(It's  just  Herself  I'm  longing  for,  Herself  and  no  other  — 
Do  you  mind  the  soft  Spring  mornings  when  you  stitched 
the  wedding-gown? 

The  little,  careful  stitches,  oh,  me  mother,  mother,  mother, 
Meself  beyond  the  broad  seas  and  you  in  Kerrydown!) 


132 


THE  CRUEL  NAME 

THAT  was  a  cruel  name,  my  lad,  you  gave  me  when  we 

parted. 
The  four  winds  caught  the  sound  of  it  and  threw  it  to  the 

world ; 

There's  never  breaking  twig  or  leaf  nor  any  echo  started 
But  sends  it  back  to  me  again,  an  evil  stone  new  hurled. 

That  was  another  name  I  had,  a  fair  name  and  dear  to  me. 
(Mind  you  how  the  Summer  noon  closed  blue  about  the 

hill?) 

Both  my  hands  within  your  own,  your  keen  face  near  to  me, 
The  gold  o'  sun  and  scent  o'  earth  —  Oh,  warm  and  sweet 
and  still! 

That  was  a  cruel  name,  my  lad,  you  gave  me  at  your  turning. 

The  very  stones  you  trod  on  cried  it  to  me  as  you  went, 
And  every  breeze  and  every  bird  was  over  quick  in  learning  — 

'Tis  blown  to  me,  'tis  sung  to  me  till  all  my  heart  is  rent. 

That  was  another  name  I  had,  a  fair  name  and  dear  to  me. 
(Mind  you  how  the  lazy  sheep  stood  white  against  the 

sky?) 
Both  my  hands  within  your  own,  your  keen  face  near  to 

me  — 

Oh,  lad,  I'm  praying  'tis  that  name  that  Death  will  call 
me  by. 


133 


OMENS 

WHY  do  you  tremble,  Asthore,  Asthore, 
Here  in  the  arms  of  your  lover? 

That  was  never  a  footstep  on  the  floor  — 

'Twas  the  fall  of  a  leaf  and  nothing  more. 

(Oh,  a  withered  leaf  blown  in  at  the  door 
To  tell  us  Summer  is  over.) 

Pulse  of  my  soul,  and  why  do  you  start? 

Come  near  to  the  great  logs  burning. 
They  flame  like  love  at  a  strong  man's  heart  — 
A  desire,  a  fire,  a  bliss  —  a  smart. 
(Oh,  fierce  they  burn  till  they  drop  apart, 

All,  all  to  the  ashes  turning.) 

Core  of  my  heart,  why  listen  and  wait? 

That  call?     'Twas  a  wild  bird's  crying  — 
Naught  but  a  bird  that  nests  too  late, 
A  wildered  bird  that  beats  at  the  gate. 
(Oh,  a  bird  in  the  night  that  seeks-  its  mate, 

Bleeding  and  lost  and  dying.) 


134 


WHEN  THE  LAD  COMES  BACK 

OH,  it's  he  that's  comin'  back  again  —  I've  got  the  letter 

read  — 
(Oh,  Mary,  send  the  sea  be  smooth  and  see  the  ship  be 

sound!) 

He's  comin'  from  America,  me  fine,  black,  curly  head, 
And  I  thought  before  this  day  would  dawn  'twas  I'd  be 

under  ground. 

I'm  laughin'  like  and  cryin'  like  and  never  stroke  I  do  — 
The  neighbours  troopin'  through  the  door  have  left  me 

green  a  track; 
It's  "  Good  mornin',  Mary  Murphy.     It's  great  news  we 

have  of  you  — 

You'll   be   the   proud   old   woman   when    the   lad   comes 
back." 

The  little,  barefoot,  bold  gossoon,  he's  comin'  back  again  — 
(Oh,  lad,  I  almost  raised  the  keen  the  day  I  watched  you 

go.) 
And  he's  comin'  back  a  six-foot  man   to  me  that's  like  a 

wren, 
With  pound  notes  in  the  hand  of  him  and  linen  like  the 

snow. 
It's  I've  put  out  his  father's  chair  and  scrubbed  it  till  it 

shone, 
And  his  father's  pipe  (God  save  us!)  lying  filled  upon  the 

rack; 
There'll  be  no  poor  widow  woman  sittin'   here  at  night 

alone 
And  crying  in  her  tea-cup  when  the  lad  comes  back, 

i35 


WHEN  THE  LAD  COMES  BACK 

I'm  sleepin'  none  and  eatin'  none  and  countin'  up  the  days  — 
(Oh,  just  to  hear  the  foot  of  him  come  soundin'  on  the 

floor!) 
I'm  shakin'  with  the  joy  of  it,  to  set  the  turf  ablaze, 

And  lay  the  table  decent  and  be  waitin'  at  the  door. 
Oh,  it's  I'm  the  old  fool  woman,  but  it's  this  I'm  bold  to  do; 
It's   twenty  years  come   Hallowmas   I'm  wallcin'   in   the 

black, 
And  I've  bought  meself  a  kerchief  and  the  colour  of  it's 

blue, 

(Sure  Himself  would  never  mind  it)  when  the  lad  comes 
back. 


136 


A  SPRING  SONG 

IT'S  myself  that  is  sick  for  the  Winter's  breaking, 
It's  myself  that  is  sad  for  the  April's  waking  — 

('Tis  the  thought  that  I'm  thinking  the  whole  day  long, 

'Tis  the  dream  that  I  dream  by  night.) 
When  all  the  green  of  the  grass  is  growing 
And  all  the  bloom  of  the  blossoms  blowing, 
And  the  world  will  be  all  in  white,  Asthore, 
The  world  will  be  all  in  white. 

And  it's  oh,  for  the  blue  of  the  April  weather, 
And  the  morn  when  the  two  of  us  walk  together  — 
('Tis  the  thought  I'm  thinking  the  whole  day  long, 

'Tis  the  dream  that  I  dream  by  night.) 
With  all  the  birds  in  the  parish  singing, 
And  all  the  bells  in  the  chapel  ringing, 
And  yourself  will  be  all  in  white,  Asthore, 
And  yourself  will  be  all  in  white. 


137 


DANNY 

IT  was  on  a  Hallowmas 

Me  boy  sailed  out, 
Flags  a-snapping  in  the  breeze, 

The  gay  crowd  all  about, 
And  the  little  waves  a-play, 

And  the  white  ship  in  the  bay, 
The  music  and  the  shoutin' — 

Like  the  skirlin'  of  the  storm, 
And  Danny,  Oh,  me  Danny, 

In  his  brand  new  uniform! 
The  kissin'  and  the  cheerin' 

And  the  last  long  shout! 
It  was  on  a  Hallowmas 

Himself  sailed  out. 

It  was  Holy  Saturday 

Me  boy  came  back; 
Oh,  the  creepin',  sullen  ship 

With  the  gray  wake  in  its  track; 
And  the  flag  a-droopin'  low 

Over  them  that  laid  below; 
The  women  sobbin'  on  the  dock  — 

Oh,  Mary,  heed  the  cry ! 
An'  the  little  child  that  trembled 

When  the  long  black  things  went  by. 
Oh,  Danny,  is  it  home  you've  come, 

And  me  here  in  the  black! 
It  was  Holy  Saturday 

Himself  came  back. 
138 


THE  CALL  OF  HOME 

I'M  the  old  tired  woman  now,  for  all  that  work  is  done  — 

I  sit  here  in  me  daughter's  house  as  any  lady  might; 
It's  "  Take  your  ease,   old  woman   dear,"   from  each   and 

every  one 

And  willin'  hands  to  wait  on  mine  from  morning  until 
night. 

But  I  have  the  longing  on  me  that  is  heavier  than  tears  — 
(Though  themselves  could  never  know  it  from  any  word  I 

say) 
It's  half  the  way  across  the  world  that  I  would  be  the  day 

And  back  in  me  own  father's  house  I've  left  these  fifty  years. 

'Tis  not  that  I'm  not  happy  here  who's  living  like  a  queen  — 
The  children's  children  at  me  knee,  I'd  not  be  leaving 

these ; 

'Tis  never  any  word  that's  come  across  the  miles  between  — 
For  aught  I  know  the  parish's  self  is  crumblin'  to  the  seas. 

But  I  have  the  longing  on  me  that  is  heavier  than  tears  — 
"  Oh,  take  your  ease,  old  woman  dear/'  'tis  well  for  them 

to  say; 
'Tis  just  the  little  wild  colleen  I'd  be  again  to-day 

And  back  in  me  own  father's  house  I've  left  these  fifty  years. 

And  to  think  I  left  it  laughin'  with  a  true  lad's  hand  in 

mine  — 
The  lips  that  kissed  me  goin',  Oh,  'tis  long  that  they've 

been  cold; 

And  brief  the  sorrow  that  I  had  that  never  gave  me  sign 
That  need  of  it  would  tear  the  heart  the  day  that  saw  me 
old. 

139 


THE  CALL  OF  HOME 

But  I  have  the  longing  on  me  —  Oh,  'tis  well  me  own  time 

nears  — 
Since  I'm  waiting  like  a  stranger  here  with  those  I  love 

the  best. 
It's  "  Take  your  ease,  old  woman  dear"  but  Oh,  'tis  there 

I'd  rest, 
Once  back  in  me  own  father's  house  I've  left  these  fifty  years. 


140 


THE  KING'S  CHAMBER 


THE  KING'S  CHAMBER 

IN  the  King's  chamber  are  strange  things 
Wrought  of  fine  gold  and  ivories, 
And  carven  chests  from  over  seas, 

And  cabinets  of  gauds  and   rings; 

And  the  great  bed  that  is  the  King's 
Is  hung  with  purple,  gold  entraced, 
And  a  deep  mirror,  many-faced, 

From  silver  chains  reflects  and  swings. 

Two  windows  open  to  the  West; 
Between  them,  on  its  braconette, 
Sits  a  strange  bird  with  eyes  of  jet 

And  blurs  of  colour  on  its  breast; 

And  on  the  wall,  an  honoured  guest, 
A  portrait  hangs  —  of  one  whose  eyes 
Grow  into  mine  with  proud  surprise 

That  fain  would  fright  me  from  my  quest. 

And  in  the  niche  a  dim  light  glows 

Like  that  white  flame  that  guards  the  pyx, 

And  paints  the  ebon  crucifix 
And  Christ's  contorted  form,  and  throws 
A  shade  as  black  as  human  woes 

That  cross-formed,  wavers  on  the  wall, 

As  if  His  image  still  let  fall 
Shadow  of  warning  on  His  foes. 

Downstairs  the  feast  goes  on ;  the  floors 
Echo  the  clang  of  oath  and  song. 
Methinks  it  taketh  over-long 

For  men  to  prate  of  love  and  wars. 
143 


THE  KING'S  CHAMBER 

In  the  King's  chamber  are  closed  doors, 

And  in  the  gloom  I  stand  apart 

Until  that  step  which  treads  my  heart 
Sounds  through  the  winding  corridors. 

Love,  who  hath  cast  out  fear,  behold 

Thy  handiwork,  how  good  it  is! 

This  mouth  that  hath  not  known  a  kiss, 
This  hair  that  wraps  me  fold  on  fold! 
But  yestermonth,  if  one  had  told 

Their  beauty,  I  had  mocked ;  to-night 

They  are  my  coin  to  buy  delight  — 
My  mouth,  my  eyes,  my  arms  are  gold! 

But  yestermonth  I  came  —  a  child 

New  to  court  jests  and  flatteries, 

With  shame-dyed  blushes  for  men's  lies, 
And  proud,  bright  eyes  that  seldom  smiled ; 
And  when  one  laughed,  "  The  King,  beguiled, 

Stays  long  in  France  —  a  wanton's  eye 

Seems  thong  to  hold  a  monarch  by," 
I  frowned  and  thought  my  ears  defiled. 

Then  came  a  certain  day  —  we  played 

At  cards;  within  the  sun's  red  ring 

Earth,  as  a  fruit,  lay  ripening, 
And  in  our  arbour  was  small  shade. 
Then  laughter,  at  a  word,  was  stayed : 

"  Sweethearts,  will  give  no  welcoming?" 

And  one  'mazed  girl's  voice  shrilled,  "The  King!  " 
And  I  stood  trembling  and  afraid. 
144 


THE  KING'S  CHAMBER 

Then  someone  spake  my  name;  in  one 
Swift  moment's  space  I  raised  mine  eyes 
To  meet  his  smile's  soft  mockeries, 

And  in  that  glance  was  life  begun. 

Meseemed  the  earth  reeled,  and  the  sun 
Leaped  at  my  heart  as  some  great  flame, 
Or  yet  his  mouth  had  formed  my  name, 

Or  touch  of  lips  on  hand  was  done. 

Oh,  but  the  King  is  kingliest 

Of  all  live  men,  strong-armed  and  fair 

And  beautiful  as  Lucifer 
When  God  had  claimed  him  as  his  best ; 
But  the  King's  eyes,  when  his  lips  jest, 

Are  weariest  of  all  sad  things, 

And  ever  in  his  laugh  there  rings 
The  broken  accents  of  unrest. 

I,  who  am  noblest  born  of  all 

The  damosels  who  grace  his  court, 
And  lend  gay  presence  to  his  sport 

At  tourney  and  at  festival; 

I  who  move  proudly  in  his  hall, 

With  high,  proud  eyes,  feel  at  my  heart 
The  mighty  passion  throb  and  smart 

That  holds  my  very  life  in  thrall. 

Yet  pride  and  shame  had  kept  my  blood 
From  turning  fire,  to  make  the  gay 
Sport  of  the  gossip's  holiday, 

And  I  had  held  to  what  I  would ; 
145 


THE  KING'S  CHAMBER 

But  at  the  mass  to-day  he  stood 

Full-eyed  upon  no  other  than 

That  exquisite  white  courtesan 
Whose  slow  smile  sneers  at  maidenhood. 

She  whom  Grammont  hath  brought  from  France, 
To  win  him  favours  from  the  King 
(So  runs  the  tale)  — I  saw  her  fling 

A  look  like  some  flame-pointed  lance 

Swift  in  his  eyes,  and,  as  by  chance, 

He  leaned,  pressed  closer,  smiled;  and  then 
My  throat  choked  on  the  priest's  "  Amen  " 

And  my  eyes  dizzied  in  their  glance. 

Could  I  have  given  strength  to  hate 

She  would  have  fallen  in  her  place, 

Prone  on  her  fair,  accursed  face, 
That  wears  too  many  smiles  of  late; 
Yea,  could  I  blast  her  with  some  great 

Torturing  death,  too  terrible 

For  any  man  to  guess  or  tell, 
That  death  this  morn  had  been  her  fate. 

But  when  the  mass  was  done  I  fled 

Fast  to  my  chamber's  solace  wrhere 

I  beat  my  breast  and  plucked  my  hair, 
And  called  on  God  to  smite  me  dead. 
Then  scorned  myself  —  then  mocked  and  said: 

"  I  strive  no  more  —  my  tears  are  done. 

Between  the  midnight  and  the  sun 
Shall  Love  command  me  in  God's  stead." 
146 


THE  KING'S  CHAMBER 

Then  straight  I  rose,  and  saw  that  day 
Died  like  a  dim  cloud  in  the  waste 
Of  empty  sky,  and  called  in  haste 

My  tiring-maids  with  rich  array 

Of  silken  robes,  and  bade  them  lay 
Jewels  on  breast  and  arms,  and  touch 
My  face,  that  whitened  over-much, 

With  red  —  in  that  French  wanton's  way. 

And  I  laughed,  "  Make  me  like  a  rose  — 
Perfumed  and  soft.     Perchance  to-night 
One  plucks  a  rose  for  his  delight. 

Make  me  the  fairest  one  that  blows!  " 

And  one,  "  Nay,  damosel,  like  those 

Strange  blooms  the  witches  give,  that  make 
Men  wild  with  love  if  they  but  take 

One  look  before  their  mad  eyes  close." 

And  when  the  jades  had  gone  I  tied 
My  mask  about  my  face,  and  made 
My  cloak  enwrap  me  like  a  shade; 

Then,  noiseless  as  a  shade,  I  hied 

To  the  King's  door.     A  soldier  cried 
An  oath  and  stayed  me;  when  I  dropped 
My  necklace  in  his  hand,  he  stopped, 

Stared,  nodded,  grinned  —  and  stood  aside. 

In  the  King's  chamber  can  I  pray 
Those  useless,  empty  prayers  that  slip 
So  easily  from  lip  to  lip, 

And  that  pleased  God  but  yesterday? 
147 


THE  KING'S  CHAMBER 

What  word  is  left  for  me  to  say, 
Who  of  His  anger  have  no  dread, 
But  dare  the  living  and  the  dead 

This  night  to  win  me  from  my  way  ? 

Yea,  Love  hath  bound  me  like  a  spell, 

I  have  no  will  to  hide  or  fear ; 

To  whisper,  lest  men's  ears  should  hear, 
Or  shrink  from  tales  their  tongues  may  tell. 
Oh,  my  beloved,  loved  over-well, 

Meseems  that  if  your  kiss  was  laid 

Close  on  my  lips,  that,  unafraid, 
They  still  would  smile  through  Death  and  Hell. 

Love,  crown  me  with  thy  wit,  thy  grace, 
That  when  the  King  is  come,  and  when 
He  hath  dismissed  his  gentlemen, 

I  may  come  proudly  from  my  place 

And  lift  my  mask  and  show  my  face, 
And  tempt  his  quickening  caress, 
Till  all  my  love  and  tenderness 

Lie  folded  in  his  close  embrace. 

This  is  my  soul's  last  hour  —  I  fling 

All  Heaven  away,  as  some  spoiled  glove, 
For  this  one  golden  dream  of  love. 

Not  the  calm  Christ  nor  saints  that  wing 

Their  way  through  Paradise  may  bring 
The  power  to  stay  me.     Hark!     I  hear 
Laughter  and  steps  draw  near,  more  near  — 

He  comes!  he  comes!     The  King!  the  King! 
148 


^ 


act 144 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  UBRARY 


